


Freak Weirdo Creep

by viceversa



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, M/M, Mentions of Suicide, Mentions of homophobia, Sadness, all the cliches, baker school, blackberry jam, mini case
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-25
Updated: 2015-11-05
Packaged: 2018-04-11 05:45:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 23
Words: 32,012
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4423670
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/viceversa/pseuds/viceversa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Who would ever need a freak like me?<br/>Sherlock. John. Boarding school. Bullies.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

After “disposing” of the frog carcass out the window, (defenestration from this floor proved to be a good way to dispose of things I did not wish to be caught with or, in this case, smell for too long) I glanced around my room. Finished experiments and irrelevant books gathered on every available and unavailable surface to the point of imminent collapse. Bored, I thought, throwing myself onto my bed with enough force to push it flush against the wall. I watched the dust attempt to settle after my movements. My hand reached out under my pillow in search of any distraction and curled around a forgotten metal object.

The gun wasn't the first I had stolen. There had been my father's rifle, mummy's small handgun, and a few off a low-rank copper or two. Guns are fascinating in themselves (much more dull in the hand of a common criminal).The security guards at this establishment have less than half of my IQ, so it was no problem to slip in (I say slip) and grab a spare.

Curled up on my bed, I turn the gun in my hands, examining it with more detail. The feel of it surprised me. When you read stories or watch any amount of crap telly, guns are described as being made of cool, almost cold metal, usually pressed up against the head of a hostage or being held in a gloved hand waiting to go off and cause damage, mortal wounds - heartbreak. The gun felt almost warm to me.

I knew how they worked. I had taken them apart before, put them back together. The first was father’s, I had done something wrong and he (obviously) noticed. Not good. Since then I have learned. The gun in my hand came apart in my mind: Trigger, bullet, barrel, pin and target made a circuit in my brain like an animated poster, bang.

The bullets themselves are fascinating in nature. A tiny piece of metal that rips through flesh and bone like tissue paper if fired from the right weapon. Pressed to a temple, a pistol means death. Half a second between living and not living - I wonder if it would be painful to die in such a manner... I placed the gun to my head towards the right side - not quite touching my skin - as I thought.

I could feel the cold now. The irrepressible shiver my body gave, a fight-or-flight response stopped in its tracks. This wasn't something new, this happened almost every night since I got the gun. I stole it on a whim, to break a streak of boredom and to practice some lock-picking. I hadn’t planned on using it or waving it about in a school. The safe containing the gun wasn't exactly Fort Knox and in less than two minutes I had a gun wedged in the back of my pants and the thrill of not-too-boring chasing me back to my room.

My empty room.

I was probably the only boy in St. Bart's boarding school with a room all to myself. Roommates tended to request others, any others, to share a room with when they got paired with me. Why? I used to ask that, maybe the first semester I was sent here, but it became glaringly obvious without the help of certain individuals and their limited vocabulary.  
Freak, they said. Weirdo and Creep were thrown in casually between punches and shoves, in with the occasional Fag. One particularly unintelligent oaf called me a Pirate one day. I didn't understand that one.

After three years of death threats and insults thrown at me, along with violence and largely indifferent adults, I had confirmed an early deduction: I was a freak. A weirdo. No one could do what I do, no one else could meet a complete stranger and tell their life story in a single glance. No one, no one normal, had such a fascination with the murdered and the murdering. No one else was called a disease and a threat to others by their private mentors, their teachers and counselors. Likely the only reason I was still in this school was due to my family’s influence.

No one here was like me. This society wants their children to believe in being unique and embracing who you are but when they are faced with someone actually different they’re on the offensive with no turning back.

My mind traveled down a road some would consider dangerous. What would it feel like? I wondered, What would it feel like to just, pull the trigger? Would it hurt? Would my nerves have time to send a pain signal to the brain that was about to be destroyed? I had examined a victim of a head shot before, I knew, in minute detail, what exactly my head would look like. A small bullet hole in the front, a trail of blood and powder burns around the wound. The back of my head would be half blown off, blood and brains would be scattered over the blankets and up the wall, dotting the almost-white. It'll leave a stain, I thought, All that would be left of this action would be one more grave in an over-populated world and a painted-over stain on a wall.

I did not, however, wonder if they would miss me. My teachers would forget me after the gossiping died down as if I had simply moved – perhaps I’d be brought up in a conversation years down the road, my name forgotten. I fancied myself a ghost story – one told to scare the freshman of the future. My brother would show up to the funeral, if they held one, out of family obligation, and mummy might mourn for a bit (if only to gain the sympathy of her high-class friends). I didn't have any friends to leave behind. But I didn't want to die, either. I didn't want to miss anything important and, if I was honest with myself, I didn't want to let my genius go to waste.

The gun got heavy and fell an inch, sliding against my skin. I opened my eyes, startled to know that they had closed of their own accord, and glared down the side of the pistol as if it had personally made them shut. I knew I needed sleep. Four days was about my limit at this point. I sighed, letting gravity take over and drag my gun down to the bed, my body to the mattress. I consented to my eyes sliding shut and drifted off, gun in hand tucked under my chin for the night.


	2. Chapter 2

After finding my notebook (one of the unimaginative masses had nicked it out of my backpack while I was lost in my mind) on top of a locker (a shorter idiot, I filed away), I headed to class.

The teacher, Professor Dimmock, wasn't the worst of the staff but tended to frown upon being late. I could care less about British Literature and it's affect of society today. Society today was too distracted by figuring out the tube system, money and crap telly to care about much else.

I entered the classroom, taking my customary back-corner-by-the-window seat that everyone avoided for me – good.

The class started on as usual, pass in homework (done weeks ago), listen to the lecture on our latest work and leave. Dimmock encouraged his 'young pupils' (as if he were some aged wise professor – he was barely out of his twenties) to record notes for some reason that I deemed unnecessary, thus my notebook (blue for English, of course) had been re-purposed as an experiment log of sorts. I flipped to a fresh page as the lecture began and started to form a new idea.

Frogs again? No, Prof. Gibbs was done with dissections, no chance to nick another. Human body parts weren't an option either, no access. Blood could be inter- tap. To my immediate right sat one Michael Anderson tapping his pencil in boredom. Just like every class, right on time. In front of him two rows, a new couple just started their relationship by a passed note and yes, there's the other, jealous friend perhaps? The boy in the other corner was shaking, staring at the new girlfriends head, Ah, jealous in general, of the boy? Turned up jeans, manicured nails, an ignored note to the boy in front left jersey pocket. No, the girl. He's been pining after him for months. Rugby player, would ruin his reputation to be 'outed,' as they say. Out of the class, 22 with above average scores; two, no, three failing and taking notes in vain, another four not bothering to and several distracted by a late student at the fro-

"Class," said Dimmock, this got my attention. His usual monotonous drone had been broken by some sort of interest, "this is our new student, John," glanced at a square of paper, "Watson. I expect you all treat him nicely."

He motioned the boy toward the seats, three of which were open.

Not likely to take front and center, everyone would stare at his back, alienating him. Middle almost center was too much hassle, having to move behind two students to get there, annoying the area with disruption. The next-to-aisle seat on the left seemed most promising, and the boy headed in that direction.

Seventeen years old, sandy hair bleached dark blonde from the sun, rugby player. Tanner-than-average, lower-middle class family, no father present, trouble with older sibling: Possibly brother? Shoes showed severe wear but were clean enforcing an older brother and poor family. Shirt was loose, two years old and found in a second hand store, jeans were newer but of a cheap brand indicated by multiple seam repairs. He had carried the red-and-black backpack for several years and it hung off of his right shoulder, out of laziness or pain I couldn't tell. His face was full of bright, yet dark, blue eyes staring at... Me.

The boy had gone past the empty seat to the forgotten (avoided) fourth chair next to me.

This boy was very obviously new here.

Dimmock had returned to his lecture and the boy, turned to me and stuck out his hand.

"'ello there mate,” he said quietly. “I'm John."

Fighting the ever-present urge to roll my eyes, I ignored the hand and stared out the window Cloudy, chance of rain later going to be windy tomorrow.

The bo- John stared at me for a second before turning back to the lesson with a not-so-well-disguised "Well then."

The lesson went on.

\-----

Several hours and a still-forming black eye (for stumbling too close to a jock – curse my lanky frame) later, I was almost to my room when I saw Mrs. Hudson standing in the hall.

Mrs. Hudson had to be the most intelligent person here. She was the 'landlady,' or the person in charge of room assignments and general cooperation between the students living here. She had learned rather quickly to allow me a room on my own and has since made visits with various food items to make sure I was eating.

"Oh, Sherlock, there you are!" her motherly voice said. "I've been looking all over for you! Where have you - is that a black eye? Oh what've they done to you now?"

Her muttering concern of my well-being was stopped by a look from me.

"Oh yes dear, back to the point. I've been trying to get in to your room, but you've changed the locks. I made some brownies earlier and I had extra, you see -"

"Experiment," I stated.

"Again?" a sigh. "Well just send me a key soon."

That's when I noticed the small duffel bag behind her, another sack on her arm. She saw me glance.

"That's what I was about to tell you, dearie." she looked pleased. Entirely too pleased. "I've found you a new roommate!"


	3. Chapter 3

No no no no no not again. This would be unbelievably tedious. I opened the door.

"Don't look at me like that dearie, you'll be fine."

"But Mrs. Hud-"

"Mr. Derby is cooped up with the flu, I couldn't put him there," she explained, following me in. “And here are those brownies I mentioned.” She set the sack down on my desk.

She put the duffle bag by the spare bed and proceeded to clear off my books and papers from it.

"Watson won't be here long," I said. I wondered what would be the last straw with my future roommate. A noxious experiment perhaps? A poorly played violin too many nights in a row?

"How did you-" she was cut off by a sharp glance. Another sigh, a tut. The woman was full of them.

"Well he'll be up in a bit, he's down in the lobby going over his final schedule. He's a very nice boy, you kn-"

I tuned out the rest of her speech and curled up on the bed to focus on my notebook instead. I had nothing new to add – no new ideas of experiments to start, no new thoughts on any mystery. The boredom must've finally gotten to me – the ever-lasting expanse of nothing, absolutely nothing of interest. Out there. On Earth. At all.

Except the new boy? Why was he so interesting? It was likely due to the fact that he talked to me like I was a human being today. The interaction must’ve formed some sort of connection in my mind – that will soon change, I am sure. 

My internal monologue was cut off by the sound of rain against the only window in the room. Lightening flashed one... two... three and there was the thunder. A fast-moving storm.

A new hypothesis formed in my mind about electricity and plant life, and I set off to write.

\------

The preparation of the supplies for this endeavor was cut off by the sound of a strong raprap on the open door just below the large B, judging by the sound it produced.

Watson was here.

I ignored his entrance and kept my eyes on the table under the window, jotting down specifics of my equipment in my notebook.

"Er, hello there? I'm J-"

"John Watson, yes, I know," I interjected. "I judge you know how to find your side of the room and unpack."

A pause, followed by: "Yes, yes of course."

Not three seconds later: "You're Sherlock Holmes, correct?" he asked. "I've heard a bit about you. The bunch in gym had a few words to say about you."

My spine straightened, involuntarily. What had he heard already? Why would he still be here other than to gather his things and risk sickness with Derby?

He went on without further prompting.

"They said you could tell all about a person by just looking at them. They said that you got a teacher fired for, er, fraternizing with a student. Is it true?"

"The relationship was obvious," I said, moving to my bed. "That level of an idiot could not go from failing advanced algebra to passing in that period of time."

He turned to look at me.

"No, I meant about telling the life story about someone by just looking at their – shoes, or something."

"Ah. Yes, it's true."

"Unbelievable," he muttered.

"Not quite. I can deduce a failed marriage by the state of a wedding ring, I can tell if someone has been medically trained by the palm of their dominant hand, I can tell where someone had last gone on vacation and when."

A look of yeah, right, flitted across his face before he returned to unpacking.

Not wanting to think John didn't believe me, I continued.

"Just how I can tell that you were in an accident not two months ago."

That stopped him.

"How," he said, "could you possibly know that?"

I smirked, standing. Fully observing him.

"I can tell by the way you hold your bag that you injured your left shoulder. The wound was severe enough to cause you to quit the rugby team. Why rugby? The unusual faint tan lines on your face and the definition of your arm muscles. Your family was in trouble financially after the accident, probably a car wreck, possibly because it was your family's fault, so you had to move here possibly for extended family, more likely because your mum found a better paying job. Stress lines around your face say that your family is fighting internally, maybe an older sibling out of school still living at home, and the fact that your father is absent isn't helping the situation. Need I go on?"

He stood, blinking slowly as he absorbed the information.

"Again," he said, "how do you know that?"

"I don't know, I simply observe."

Another blink.

"That, that was bloody amazing."

I think my jaw may have actually dropped.


	4. Chapter 4

I had learned a bit more about John Watson in the following weeks. He was never late to class, he had a jar of blackberry jam in his bedside table reserved for morning toast (they didn't have jam here apparently. I didn't know, breakfast wasn't an option for me), and he talked in his sleep.

These things were inconsequential at best, but I couldn't help but file them away in my brain. The teen had managed to be interesting enough to warrant space in my mind – maybe I had caught Derby’s sickness.

I couldn't decide if he was extraordinarily nice or just stupid. He had stuck around with me for two months without breathing a word of switching rooms. And believe me, I have tried to get rid of him. My dangerous experiments seemed to interest him, my periods of silence or fasting didn't faze him, and my scratchings on the violin didn't bother him – they even seemed to soothe him at night for some reason.

John Watson was an enigma. A puzzle. A mystery.

"Did you finish Dimmock's assignment already?"

I didn't glance up from my microscope.

"Because I need some help."

"And you're asking me?" I drawled.

"Yes, Sherlock. Friends help each other out."

"Friends?" I let out. I was feeling unusually talkative today, was it the sugary jam I had stolen earlier?

"I don't have friends." I amended. That was better.

He looked up at me from his homework position (as I deemed it) on his bed.

"Oh, I err. Never mind then," and glared at the sheet in front of him as if it had personally offended him.

Odd I thought, and went back to work.

\--------

"Isn't that a bit dangerous?"

It was a few days after our last conversation. I wonder of he had ever gotten that homework done... Irrelevant.

"No," I replied.

He was referring to my re-hashing of an experiment from months ago.

"No, look there," he pointed. "See the puddle of water next to the flower pot? Way too close to that part that sparks every so often."

I looked, he was right.

"No, it's fine."

"Whatever," he said, and turned back to his book.

John and I had become... closer in the last few weeks. By closer, I meant that he would talk to me and sometimes (honestly, more often than not) I would respond. He seemed to… care for my well being somehow, urging me to eat every other day and sleep more often. I didn't know why.

He giggled and I looked over my shoulder for a moment to observe him. Something he was reading was funny, drawing him in to his book. He was like this when he read; it was fascinating to observe. His blue eyes would crinkle in a smile, he would lean in closer to the words on the page when things got especially interesting and would almost mourn when something bad happened. Sometimes he would move his mouth with the words he was reading. He tried to explain this book to me, a series apparently, called 'Harry Potter,' but I couldn't pay attention to his words because the way they shaped his mouth was distracting me. He was distracting and it was detrimental to my – my, er work obviously.

I was pulled away from my ponderings by a dull throb in my right hand. I turned and saw that my sleeve was on fire.

My sleeve.

On.

"Fire!" exclaimed John.

Without my permission, my arm decided to start flailing around while John grabbed a blanket from his bed and came towards me.

"Here! Here hold still!"

He threw the blanket over my arm, catching the table as well, and snuffed the flames out.

"Shit, Sherlock! Are you okay? I told you this was dangerous!"

I looked back and fourth between him and the blanket. A sharp sting suddenly struck my hand.

"Ow," I said.

Another sigh. Honestly people...

He carefully took the blanket off of my arm and threw it on top of the desk and the burnt experiment.

"Stay still, I have a First-Aid kit in the closet," he said, walking over to the closet.

My eyes followed him there and back again, attempting to make eye contact.

"Honestly, Sherlock, you need to be more careful! What if the flame had spread?"

"I'm fine," I said, then I glanced down at my arm. Half of my hand was reddish and swelling, along with a portion of my wrist. My shirtsleeve was black and reduced to ash at the edge, ruined. At least it was just my right hand. It was dominant, so writing would be painful for a few days or so, but the violin would be manageable. 

He took a look at my arm, carefully picking it up and examining it in the light.

"Looks minor to me, but it'll need to be wrapped," he said. He laid the kit on my bed and took out the gauze.

"Why did you do that?" I asked.

"What?" he grabbed an unopened bottle of water from the desk.

"I hate repeating myself."

"Why would I what Sherlock? Get mad that you started a fire in our room?"

"No, I mean why would you put it out?" I asked. "Anyone else would've laughed and tried to video tape it for the internet and the amusement of others. That's what I don't get about you, Watson. It's almost like you care about a freak like me."

He froze for a second and then moved to my side again, dribbling the cool water on my injured hand over the slightly smoking blanket. I grimaced.

"What would make you think I would do something like that, Sherlock?"

He looked at me, and I realized how very, very close he was to me.

"You wouldn't be the first," I replied.

His wide eyes got even wider, they almost looked... sad.

"I don't believe that," he said, going back to treating my wound.

I barked out a laugh. "Just look on St. Bart's Facebook page, under videos or pictures likely."

He shook his head. "Sherlock, that's awful. That's, unethical for starters. Have you reported this?"

"To whom? The uncaring staff or the teachers who manage the page? I think not."

He thought for a moment, finishing the wrapping with a piece of tape. His hand rested just above my bandage, warm against my skin.

"Sherlock," he said, searching my eyes "I would never, ever do that to you, understand?"

I believed him.

He leaned closer. I didn't know what to do, his treatment was the most human contact I've had in a while, so I froze. His face passed mine, brushing against my dark curls as his arms wrapped around me.

So this is what a hug felt like.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you're all still liking the story! I know I said it is finished, but I would still appreciate any feedback you have - I still edit the chapters and add some things here and there if you have any opinions!


	5. Chapter 5

"You know," said John, "winter break is coming up."

"I am aware."

John waited for me to elaborate, which is why I didn't.

"So, erm, what're your plans?" he asked, rubbing the back of his head. It was a quirk of his, he only did it when he was stressed or nervous.

"Nothing," I said, "same as last year."

"Oh. I, erm, good. I'm going to stay here too, actually. My mum is working all break so I didn't see a reason to go home. You wanna, er, hang out?"

He blushed. Nervous then. Did he expect rejection?

"Of course, John, we are roommates, I expect that we will see each other and 'hang out,' as you put it."

He relaxed. "Good.” He nodded to himself. "Er, see you at lunch then," and left.

What was he planning?

\-----

I was in maths until lunch, a dull, utterly useless class. A complete waste of my time. I was extremely thankful of my ability to delete unnecessary information as several years of maths took up a lot of space. The math professor here, an American named Epps, was entirely predictable.

Start off lesson "Hello class," Describe a vivid real-life situation. Turn it into a long, complicated equation. Provide another example. Take questions. Fiddle with chalk and stumble a bit. Flick curls out of face when thinking. Assign homework. Fiddle with papers. Dull. Useless.

RingRing.

Lunch.

I didn't eat lunch. It was distracting and the canteen was entirely too noisy. I wasn't a fan of crowded places, they tended to give me sensory overload and I could shut down.

The high probability of getting punched in the ribs happened to deter me from dining with the unintelligent masses, which is why I usually spent my lunch break in my room. Today, however, I was heading outside for an appointment. 

Lunch outside, usual bench. -SH

He would be there before I as his class was closer, and I didn't want my bench taken by some overly-affectionate couple or a large, stupid rugby player. I was halfway there when I saw, down a deserted hallway, the Trio of Idiots (as I’ve dubbed them) beating up another kid. Looks like the rugby player was outed anyway, I thought. I kept walking, there was nothing I could do without injuring myself or making it worse for him, but not before one of them saw me looking.

"Hey! There's the freak!" Idiot One shouted.

Shit.

I ran. Down the corridor, taking the second right to lead me to a set of stairs. I could hear them pounding after me. I couldn't just disappear into a crowd, most were at lunch or outside. I ran up the stairs, the Trio rumbling up in my tracks. They might've been strong, but I was faster. Top of the stairs, left, janitor's closet? No, too obvious, Aha!, a classroom in use by a club, that will do. I stopped and entered the room with a calm walk, closing the door after me as the club looked up.

All underclassmen, I've never seen them, so I played confused.

"Um, hi, could you tell me how to get to lunch?" I asked, imitating John's nervous habit by running my hand through my hair.

One of them was halfway through directions when I heard the Trio pass, I waited a moment, said a quick thanks, and left the way I came, taking a shortcut to outside and walking to my bench.

\------

John was already there. I spotted him first but he turned around got up from our bench, a half eaten sandwich in his hand.

"Hey Sherlock!" he said. "Have you seen my jam anywhere? I can't seem to find it and this peanut butter sandwich just isn't the same."

He looked almost sad.

"No." I couldn't exactly tell him that it was used as a vital part of an experiment.

I should replace it for him, it's the nice thing to do.

John nodded and I walked past him towards a nearby tree. The girl standing nervously under the tree was a client of mine, one underclassman, Molly Hooper. She was fidgeting, wringing her hands (she didn’t think I’d come) but she visibly relaxed when she saw me. I felt John follow me in curiosity.

"Miss Hooper," I smiled, "good to see you again."

John's eyebrows went up, he hasn't seen me act before. Maybe I should've informed him to my part-time job but, no, this is more fun.

"Hi Sherlock," she looked up at me, "did you find, did...er, did everything go okay with my, my case?"

She blushed.

"Yes Molly. As soon as you told me your story, I had a hunch. You said your private journal was stolen from a place only you know about. Who else would've seen it? Your roommate, obvious. I followed her between classes but she didn't act suspiciously so it wasn't on her, nor in her locker that I broke into. I had an… acquaintance of mine go into your shared room, but it wasn't in there, that would be too easy. No, I had her steal your friend's keys and find her car, it was in the glove compartment." I handed her the journal, pink with some sort of horned horse on the front. Her face lit up and she grabbed it.

"Sherlock! Oh thank you thank you thank you!" she screeched, jumping forward to embrace me.

I did not enjoy that. She was too... squeezy. Completely unlike John's hug.

"But why would she steal my private journal?" she asked. "I thought she was my friend."

"I have no clue why Miss Donovan would do that, but I am sure the answer lies in whatever is written in your journal," I replied.

Her eyes got wide and glanced away. She seemed to remember she needed to be somewhere and hurried off after another 'thank you.'

Case closed.

John cleared his throat. "Sherlock, do you do, erm, that often?"

"Do I do what? Solve mysteries? Find lost kittens and misplaced items? Yes I do. Problem?"

"No, no not at all. I think it's brilliant, really."

I half smiled, only John. The yard began to empty.

“Do you get paid or something?” he asked.

“Not always,” I said. “I don’t particularly need the money. Contacts, however, people who owe me a favour – that’s what’s important.”

John shook his head and smiled. I was still getting used to that. 

I turned, ready to head back in before the bell rang in order to grab what I needed for my next class. John began to follow but stopped.

"What?" I asked.

"I forgot my bag on the bench, you go on and I'll catch up," he said, walking off in the opposite direction.

I continued on towards the door, dodging the odd trashcan or tree, when I felt like I was being followed. Thinking it was John, I slowed a bit, but that theory was soon blown away by a sharp shove in my kidneys, knocking me to the ground. I rolled over and saw the Trio standing over me.

"Lookie what we have here," mocked one, "the freak has gone outside. I thought he was allergic to the sun."

"Naw," drawled another, punctuating his answer with a kick to the ribs, "we just flushed him out of his cave."

Kick. Ribs bruised. Curl up, protect yourself. Another kick to the head, cut on my forehead. No one around. Too fast. Step, kick, push, wrist exposed pull back - no too late a step on that too, grinding my hand onto the mud. I cried out in pain. They laughed. Then they stopped and one of them came crashing down on me, elbowing me in the temple and all I saw was black. 

\-------

"Ugghhherughner," escaped from my mouth as I awoke.

Concussion, mild.

I blinked open my eyes, luckily shaded by the trees overhead. There was a weight pressing against my arm, pushing and pulling. John.

"John!" I said, sitting up to meet his eyes. "Ow."

"Sherlock! Thank God you're awake! I thought they killed you or something!" he grinned at me through his split lip, wrinkling a black eye.

Split lip. Black eye.

"John! What happened to you?" I sat up in alarm, feeling the pull in the bruised muscles of my torso.

"I was coming after you like I said when I saw them attacking you, so I kinda... jumped on one. Knocked him over on to you, sorry about that, but I kicked the others off and they got in a few punches too, but the bell rang and they took off. I've been trying to get you up for about five minutes."

I stared at him stunned.

"You took on those guys, all on your own, for me?"

"Well yeah, of course," he replied. "Stand up then, lets get back to our room."

I stood with his help, still dazed from the beating and of John’s actions, and we made our way to the other side of campus, of course, missing the rest of school. We limped up stairs and through the door and John went to the over-used First-Aid kit while I sat on his bed, the closest.

He took my hand ever so gently and said: "Here, let me wrap your wrist up and clean that cut."

After he was finished, he sat next to me and started on his wounds while I observed him. His left shoulder was obviously in pain as he winced while trying to reach his face.

"Let me," I said, taking the damp gauze from him. I turned his head by the chin and looked at his hurt bottom lip. It was full enough without the swelling. I dabbed at the dried blood with the gauze, taking my time. I finished there and moved to a small cut on his forehead. Keeping my hand in place, I set the gauze down and looked at him.

He was staring at me, mouth slightly open. "Thank you," he breathed, although why he was thankful I wasn't sure. The confusion must've showed on my face because he smiled and shook his head a bit.

I didn't know what to say, he saved me from the Trio. He got hurt protecting me.

That must mean he's my best friend.

I dropped the hand holding his chin and leaned forward. His eyes widened as I drew him in to an uncomfortable hug, smiling against his neck.

"Thank you," I rumbled.

He shivered.


	6. Chapter 6

It was just after lunch and I was alone in our room. Bored. So unbelievably, irrevocably, inconceivably, bored. I grabbed my violin form its resting place on a dresser and proceeded to tune. A, D, G, E, and re-tune. And re-tune until the strings were perfect and I was bored again. Standing at my full height, arms raised, shoulders relaxed, I closed my eyes. Slowly, I brought my bow up to the string, preparing my fingers to play a B-flat on the G, possibly my favorite note (if having a favorite note was something I had thought about). Fingers were posed, already starting a light vibrato. I closed my eyes, took a deep breath and began to pull my bow across the strings with the complete concentration in order to avoid any squeaking.

It's one of the purely happy things that I do for myself. Music was irrelevant when looked at logically. It was not needed in order to survive. Food, shelter, air – all considered generally invaluable to the population. I had different values. Without the out of screeching strings or melodies, apart from my work, I would go insane. The sharp, clear sounds of my violin gave me entertainment. The squeals and atonal notes easily drawn from it gave me a sound barrier between me and the rest of the world, often making people flee or, on one occasion, attempt to attack me but I consider that an outlier. 

When most people played, it was from sheet music. They would warm up with scales and try to perfect their newest song. I did that too, I had favorite composers like Beethoven and Tchaikovsky that required finesse, pieces I absolutely hated by Bach and Dvorak. The best thing to play, however, was whatever came out of my brain. Random notes that would come out of my stomach, slide through my arm and into my fingers, new tempos coming out of my heart and head, guiding my bow. It wasn't genius. I didn't compose new symphonies or write new solos. I did it for me. It didn't always sound great, sour notes, mismatched melodies and the like, but it made sense to me, and that was what always mattered.

I stood there for a few hours and played. John was out, doing something, and I didn't expect him back until late. Which was why I was surprised when I heard a voice behind me.

"Fantastic," it breathed. I was startled, but I continued playing, hoping my pause was taken as intentional.

John was standing to my side, watching me play. I could sense him even as my eyes were still closed. I wonder how long he's been there.

I let my bow slow on it's own, my fingers falling lax as I froze for the obligatory two seconds after a solo, the last note ringing through the small room. I opened my eyes and turned to look at John, he was smiling.

"That was wonderful, Sherlock."

"Was it? I had only been half listening myself."

"It was," he confirmed.

How was it that John came in to my life –was it really just a car accident and a sick student that drove him here?

"Thank you," I said, putting away my violin. The words came out a bit stilted, rusty from disuse. I stood stiffly and looked at him, not used to praise.

He just went about his business, picking up and putting up.

"How long have you been playing? You sound great, I bet you had a really good teacher."

"Since I was seven. I found a violin in the attic one day when I was bored. It was missing two strings," I recalled, "and the chin rest was gone, but I, with the help of one of the staff, took it to town and had it fixed. The teacher was unnecessary."

"You, you taught yourself the violin? How could you, that's just, it's brilliant, really," he sputtered. "You're brilliant."

I blushed. “You have food on your face,” I changed the subject, picked up a book and fell onto my bed – there. Further away. 

“Oh, where?”

“Just… just there.” I pointed to the corner of my mouth. John, the imbecile, started wiping at the wrong side. 

“Did I get it?”

“No.”

“Well hell, where is it?”

He was wiping at his entire face now with his shirt, exposing a large portion of his stomach - “You got it.” I settled back with my book.

"Thanks mate. I've got a date tonight."

"What?" I asked. I looked up from my book not having read a word.

"I," said John proudly, "have a date. Tonight. With Susan. She asked me. On. A. Date. And now I’ve got jam on my shirt so I should probably change."

"Oh," I said, "have fun then.'

He deflated, leaving me to my book as he changed, but I couldn't concentrate on it. An odd feeling was settling into my stomach, I didn't appreciate the discomfort, but I knew it had to do with John. And his date.

\-----

Violin? Boring. Book? Boring. Holiday assignments? Boring. Boring boring BORING.

John was on his date now, leaving me alone. I could see it now. It'd be awkward at first, but she would have picked a scary movie. They'd hold hands and kiss afterward. He'd walk her back to her dorm. They'd text all night and he'd ask to be her boyfriend and it was sickening and I didn't know why.

Yes you do.

Because it means John is like the rest of the world. Because John should be better than to cater to petty, romantic dates that won’t last longer than a week. Because I'd rather be out there with him right now.

I flopped on my bed, confused and defeated; and spread out, stretching my long limbs around and under the sheets. Under my pillow. Between the headboard and mattress I stretched my hand until it came in contact with a forgotten metal object once more.

The gun.

I hadn't looked at it in months. It was still fascinating to me, something so small that could do so much damage from so far. I dragged it up from the crevasse and held it above my head, spinning it on my finger, dropping it on my chest. Still bored. Don't want to move. My name is Sherlock Holmes. I live in London, England. I go to St. Bart's boarding school, which was currently practically empty. I am a freak, a loner, a weirdo, a fag. I have one friend, John Watson. He is my roommate in dorm B of 221, which resides on the top floor of Town Wing. The top floor.

The top floor.

I aimed my gun at the ceiling directly above me. The weight swayed my arms back and forth, a reverse pendulum. I placed my finger on the trigger.

Breathe.

Aim.

Fire.

The noise made my body jump and the recoil knocked my arm to the side. Louder than I thought. No one was around to hear it. Some dust from the ceiling floated down onto the bed, but I could make out the small, dark bullet hole among the various stains and cracks already present. It was a satisfying feeling.

I aimed again, ready for the noise and feel of it, and fired.

Bang. BangBangBang. Bang.

A lopsided smiley-face stared back at me. I laughed.

The gun was slightly lighter now and I rested it against my chest as the dust continued to settle around me. I fell asleep.

\------

The door squeaked and I cracked open an eye to watch John come in. He had seen me 'asleep' and tiptoed to his bed. I couldn't see his face, but I felt him turn to look at me.

"It's rude to stare, you know," my voice echoed in the until-then silent room.

He sighed. "It's rude to feign sleep too."

“Is it?” I sat up. His back was to me placing his jacket in the closet.

"Did your, er, date-thing go well?"

"Yes, it went fine," he turned, "Sherlock, are you oka- where the hell did you get a gun?"

"Oh yes," I looked down, "this. Nicked it at the start of term, got bored today." I decided not to mention the bullet holes, maybe he wouldn't notice them.

"WHAT in the BLOODIEST OF HELLS DID YOU DO TO OUR CEILING?!"

He noticed.

"I told you, I got bored."

He strolled over to me and grabbed the gun.

"Dammit Sherlock, you can't just do stuff like that! What will Mrs. Hudson say? What if the ceiling had come down or the gun misfired? What if you had gotten hurt? What would I have done then?"

It was the first time I had ever seen John get angry with me, even after he had found out about the stolen jam. I was shocked.

"Sorry," I muttered in a small voice. I was upset, upset because John was upset with me. I looked down.

He paused.

"Just don't," a breath, "don't ever do this again, Sherlock. Do you understand?"

I looked up. I was off the hook, just like that? He still looked upset, there was something wrong. Well, something more wrong than having me as a roommate. I got up and went over to him.

"What else are you upset about?" I asked.

He took a deep breath. Then another. Then he rushed forward to my arms, nearly knocking me over, and hugged me.

"It was the date, Sherlock," he muttered into my shirt. "It was awful. I had a dinner and a movie planned. The dinner was fine, pasta is always good, but when we were walking to the cinema we got jumped."

He swallowed, I stiffened. Who did this to him!

"Or I, I got jumped. It was all a set-up, the jocks and Susan were in on it. She got a free meal and the jocks got me. They pulled me into an alleyway and pushed me against the wall. They said," he swallowed, continuing in a whisper. "Oh God Sherlock, they were saying awful things. About you and me. They said, it was awful Sherlock. Everyone hates me now because I'm friends with the freak, Sherlock Holmes."

I stiffened and tried to pull away, "I am terribly sorry," I began, spitting out the words. I paused. "Do you plan on calling Mrs. Hudson or shall I?"

He hung tighter but looked up at me.

"NO, no Sherlock! I didn't mean it like that!"

I relaxed a fraction in his arms, he just clung tighter. I could see the bruises forming on his face now. Oh John. Before I could stop myself I was lightly touching his face where the bruises were starting to form.

"They're all idiots, every one of them. You aren't a fr-"

"A what? A freak? Of course I am John, I am every single one of the things that they call me. Freak, loner, psychopath, weirdo, creep, fag-"

John leaned up and I was cut off by his mouth – his mouth on mine.


	7. Chapter 7

In hindsight, pushing John and running away probably wasn't the best choice in the situation.

John leaned up and touched his lips to mine. His mouth was warm and soft. I could feel his rapid breath still on my face, his nose pressed against mine. His hands grasped my arms above my elbows, mine were frozen halfway up not touching anything. Neither of us moved.

After several hours, or a few more seconds, I couldn't tell, my brain caught up with the situation and commanded my body to move back. Fast.

John tipped forward a bit and snapped his eyes open, staring at me in surprise.

Another moment passed.

"Sherlock I'm so s-" John began, but I interrupted with a hand in the air.

"Don't," I said, "just-" but my brain couldn't seem to come up with more words so I bolted. Around John, through the door, down hallways and up stairs until I came to the roof. It was dark, but I found a secluded spot behind some equipment and settled down to think.

Think. Ha. As if I could. Too many things had happened to my body and mind the past few hours. Jealousy. Unwarranted anger. Ennui. Relief in a gunshot. Sleep. Happiness, sadness, dejection, anger again. Elation. It was more than I go through on a normal week. All of it, spinning in my mind. Chemicals acting and counteracting in ways that made me dizzy. Too much. It was all too much because it can’t all be explained and figures out right now. The connections formed and still forming are based in the illogical – the emotional. There was nothing to do but I felt like my chest was about to swallow me whole or burst or do both at once.

\-------

My body must have decided to simply shut down until the chemicals could make some sense of themselves, because the next time I opened my eyes it was to morning. My neck was stiff when I stood up, my seat was cold and joints stiff. I bet John's been worried. I reached for my phone but it wasn't on me. It must be back in my room.

With John.

Oh.

Oh.

Last night actually happened.

The, the kiss, was... new. Obviously, I didn't have anything to compare it to. No one would've though to kiss the freak.

Then why would John?

I made my way downstairs and to our room. I hope John is at breakfast, I thought while opening the door.

Light from the hallway revealed half of a deserted room. I let out a breath I hadn't been aware was held and flipped on the light.

The light, in turn, lit the room causing a sleeping figure in a chair to awaken quite rudely.

John blinked and yawned, stretching his limbs and blearily looked a path round the room. To me.

"Mornin' Sherl- SHERLOCK!"

I flinched.

"Sherlock, where have you been! I looked all over for you! I was worried!"

"Roof," I muttered, walking to my desk.

John came up behind me and watched me shuffle through some old lab notes.

"I’ll remember that for next time. Listen, Sherlock, we need to talk. About, well, you know. But I'm starving and I'm sure you are too so I'm going to skip down to the canteen before it closes, alright? Just, stay here, okay?"

I nodded in understanding and kept looking through the papers for a distraction. There was this one lab involving acid and blood...

Soon, John came back with food. He sat a tray in my line of sight and sat on his bed, staring at his toast and beans.

"Sher-"

"I need some acid," I said.

"Er, what?"

"Acid. From the lab. I'll be back."

"But the lab is locked! It's holiday Sherlock."

I waved my lock-picking kit at him, tugging on my shoes.

"Fine. I'll just come with you!" said John. "It could be dangerous, and we still need to talk. About. Well. You know."

I made my way out the door with John following close behind - blessedly silent. I knew he wanted to talk but I wasn't sure what to say. Or what he would say. Or what we should say. I wasn’t really sure of much, come to think of it.

What do you do in a situation like this? I wasn't even sure if I liked John - That's a lie. Of course I like John. But what of his true feelings? I don't think I could take it if he said he didn't mean it. This friendship is the only thing I've got, and I'm not about to let it go.

I strode across the courtyard leading to the science building, fast enough that John was slightly behind me.

The door to the building was unlocked, likely by a janitor, so we made our way quietly through the halls and stairs to the chemistry floor. There were no cameras to worry with, but with an unknown amount of people here it was wise to keep shut. Luckily for me.

We were to the door I need quite soon. John covered me while I kneeled down and began to lock-pick. The lock was tricky, but nothing I hadn’t been through before.  
"Sherlock," John whispered. I ignored him.

"Sherlock!" he said with some urgency. "I think there's someone coming!"

I listened too and could hear faint footsteps coming up the nearby stairs.

Shit.

I wasn't done with the lock, we were in full view of the stairs and trapped. Verbal instructions were out at this point so I grabbed John's arm and ran as silently as I could down the hall, looking at each door. Locked. Locked. I wouldn't go in Wolfe's classroom again if it'd save my life. Locked. Unlocked!

I pulled him to the door and twisted the knob, bringing us both inside. The small, dark place surprised me. Storage closet. I was on one side and John was on the other, our sides pressed together.

We caught our breath and tried not to move or talk. Whoever came up those stairs was still on this floor. After a minute or so, we heard the person walk past.

Male, 5'10", walking asymmetrically on purpose, probably listening to music.

John let out a sigh of relief.

"That was close," he whispered.

"Dangerous indeed, good call," I shot back. We waited another few minutes to make sure the coast was clear before we fully relaxed. John dropped my hand. It felt cold.

"Where are we?"

"Storage closet, obviously." I tried the door, locked.

John noticed. "You locked us in! What're we going to do? We can't exactly call out for help!-"

I tuned him out. What storage closet would ever lock from the outside? Then again, why would you lock it form the inside… My phone still wasn't with me so I reached for his. To do this, I had to reach across his body and into his pocket, effectively shutting him up.

"Sherlock, what?"

"No signal, of course, but it will be useful as a light." I flicked the screen and light flooded the room. John was standing very close. I turned away from him and examined the closet. It was lined with shelves almost all the way round the room; each shelf was lined in various containers and vials. Chemistry supplies.

I thrust the phone to John and glanced around more for the acid I needed. I found it quickly and began collecting several vials and jars I deemed useful. John watched me and pointed the phone to where I was looking. Something flashed near the top in the light. What was that? I wondered. The room wasn't equipped with a ladder and even at my height I couldn't reach. I saw an overturned bucket near a corner. Grabbing a hold of the shelves I pulled myself up. I could just barely reach the shelf then.

"What are you doing Sherlock?" John asked from the cramped space below.

My body was blocking most of the light and I struggled to lean where I could see.

"Get down!" said John, struggling to move the light where I could see. My left hand came off of the shelf and I could see the object clearly. It was a jar of mercury. Useless. I lost interest and my balance was further corrupted. I could feel myself falling. I twisted, attempting to right myself but all I managed to do was fall face first onto John.


	8. Chapter 8

"Get down!" said John, struggling to move the light where I could see. My left hand came off of the shelf and I could see the object clearly. It was a jar of mercury. Useless. I lost interest and my balance was further corrupted. I could feel myself falling. I twisted, attempting to right myself but all I managed to do was fall face first onto John.

\--------

"Ooof." 

Our heads missed anything blunt and our feet knocked over several vials of whatever in an attempt to make room for our legs in the cramped space. A few bottles from above had landed on my back, one on my head, and a couple on the floor. Only two were broken and none were particularly harmful.

"You okay?" he managed from my neck.

My face was pressed to his forehead, his arms were around my middle and mine were on either side of him. I pushed myself up to get a good look around, but all I saw was John. Under me. 

Holding on for dear life.

I froze.

"Sherlock?" he said, shaking me a bit. "Sherlock? You alright? You didn't pass out or anything did you? We should get to the nurse, is he even here on holiday? God only knows what's in all these bott-"

I was staring at him. His face was concerned, not for himself, never himself, but for me. I could barely make him out in the light of the thrown phone. Incredible. Astonishing. Wonderful. All synonyms for John. For my friend. Under me. Whom I must love because every other term didn’t quite fit.

That thought seemed to knock me back into the present with a John staring up at me, still babbling. He made a move to release me so we could rise, but I stopped him by leaning down. 

Close.

Very close. We were going to kiss, obviously.

His mouth was still half-open from speech. Our noses almost brushed and our breath made a path to each other's lips. We were frozen here for a while, a minute or a day, a strong cliché of time. Agonizingly slowly, I tipped my head forward, glancing from his lips to his face, and touched his lips with mine.

A rush of exhilaration and electricity found it's way up and down my spine. I wanted to- I wanted- John.

He started to move his lips, pressing up into mine. He tilted his head and moved his hands up my back. I slid my hand between his head and the hard floor, kissing him back.  
Our bodies seemed to get even closer, heat was exchanged through the layers of winter clothing and everything was perfect. What started out as frozen joy quickly escalated into something fast and warm and... wonderfully alive but quiet all the same. One of us opened our mouth and the other sucked on a lip. Tongues were meshed and twined together and hands were pressing on bodies, grasping hair and clothes. Half-formed moans and declarations made their way out as we explored each other’s necks and faces. Bottles were knocked over, clanking against others and the wall as we slowed our ministrations.

This type of thing was supposed to be all in a rush and blurry and confusing, if the telly and tabloids are to be believed. Instead it was warm – I was conscious of my actions and his actions, possibly more so than other times. I was thinking. I was… cataloguing and wondering if I was doing this at all correctly and would it be weird to run my tongue along his teeth or would that be not kissing?

Soon - too soon but the passage of time was still evident- we were barely touching lips with tiny movements and our eyes cracked open to make contact.

I start to lean down again but John half shakes his head, freezing me in place. Oh god was this a mis-

"Sherlock," he whispers, and then smiles. Not a normal smile, but an over-the-top, ear-reaching, eye-wrinkling smile. For me.

I smile back.

"Sherlock," he starts again, very softly, "to be completely dull I must ask - what does this mean?"

"Whatever you want it to of course." My voice is raspy and deep as I search his eyes. The effect of my sentence makes itself known there, brightening the blue even further.

He leans in for a quick kiss. It was wonderful. I am unused to this feeling... Joy? Interesting...

John pulls back and makes a face.

"Sherlock, we have got to get up. This isn't exactly comfortable."

He looks at me seriously. I look closer, his eyes are strained. I snort and we fall into - dare I say it - a giggle fit at the situation. Due to hormones and endorphins and things, I’m sure. 

John grabs the phone and turns it on and I clamber off of him and help him up, avoiding the bits of broken glass around us.

"How are we supposed to get out of here?"

"The key, obviously."

He looks at me, dumbfounded.

"The key? Sherlock!"

I smile again, my face is beginning to hurt from the repeated action, and easily find the key on the shelf next to the doorknob, sliding it in to the lock.

"Watch out for Mrs. Norris," whispers John.

I ignore the look he sends at my confused expression and open the door.

The light blinds us for a moment and we sneak back through the hall, down the stairs and out into the courtyard.

I turn up my collar against the cold. Halfway across, John grabs my hand in his.

I smile.

____

Even three days later, the closet incident doesn't feel real. Yes, John and I hold hands when no one is watching. We share looks across our room. We kiss and snog and what have you. One night we slept in the same bed.

On this day, John was sitting on his bed, I on mine, and we were attempting to do classwork.

"Bored," I stated.

John looks up at me and sighs, putting down his laptop and half-finished essay.

"What do you want to do?"

"I don't know. I'm bored. If I knew what to do I would be doing it, not complaining."

He rolls his eyes. "What about that case you were working on? The missing letters?"

"I've a plan, but it can't be carried out until the start of the week."

"Oh. And I guess working on that essay like a good Sherlock is out of the question?"

I stare at him.

He thinks for a bit. "Er... What about a game?"

"A game John? Really?"

"Yes Sherlock," he says, "A game. Have you ever played truth or dare?"

"Yes. Once. And I did not enjoy it. Dares can be ridiculous and humiliating and I am stubborn." I wrap my arms round my legs, remembering.

John looks sad for a bit. "Oh, Sherlock," he starts quietly. "Well, I'm crap at I Spy so lets play truth or truth."

No way I can get out of this one, I think. "You go first, then, if we must."

"Okay. Erm.. Favorite color?"

"Blue." Like your eyes.

"Okay. Now you ask me."

"Must I?" I asked, raising my eyes to meet his. He nods. "Favorite color then."

"You can't just repeat me!"

"I asked! If you don't answer, you... you lose or something!"

"Fine. Green. Erm... Favorite animal?"

"What a ridiculous question."

"Just answer Sherlock!"

"Otter."

"Why?"

"That's two questions in a row, you can't do that."

"Fine, ask me one," he says, laying out on the bed.

"I'm tired of these meaningless questions," I say, making it more personal. "How many relationships have you had?"

"Oh. Erm, three," he responds. "Including this one, I mean. First kiss?"

"Last week," I say. I could feel him stare at me. "Are you really surprised?" I said, unashamed. Who would have kissed me before this point in my life?

"I, er, no. I mean yes! I- I don't know," he said, shifting upright on the bed. "I never really thought about it, so yeah, I am a bit. I'm kind of honoured, though."

I look up at him, he's genuine. He's always genuine, he's John.

"Your turn," I say. feeling better.

"Oh, right." He's silent for a bit. "Do you, uh, have any siblings?"

I flinch internally. "Yes." I keep it short.

"You can't just leave it at that! Names, how many, older or younger?"

"There were no stipulations on answer length or content at the beginning of this, just the truth and I gave you that!"

He looks disappointed.

"Fine," I gave in. "One. Mycroft. Older. Annoying."

He smiles. I smile back, happy to please him.

I thought about my next question. I knew he had a sibling, older, but we were on the subject of family. "Whatever happened to your father?"

The smile froze on his face as a mask slipped on. Oh.

"He um. He," he cleared his throat, "He died."

Oh.

I caught his eye and got up. I sat next to him as he continued to stare forward. I put my arm around him. Physical comfort was key when dealing with emotional situations.

"The crash," he said softly, not looking at me but leaning in to my touch. "It was his fault. All of ours, really, but he was driving."

I stayed silent to allow him to continue.

"It was... it started out as a nice night. Dad had gotten a promotion at work and we were out celebrating...

\--

Dad, and Harry too, were drinking, way too much as usual, and we were all giddy with a good night out. Harry had her arm around my shoulders, laughing at something Dad had said. Mum and Dad were in front of us on the way to the car.  
"Oh tell another!" said Mum. She loved Dad's jokes, he always had something new to say.  
"Let me get in the car first!"  
We all got in, none of us were in the state of mind to tell Dad not to drive.  
\--

"He... er, at the intersection right before our house, he ran the light. He T-boned another car, a smaller one. Harry and I ended up in the front, her by Mum and me where Dad should've been. Mum was buckled in, a habit that kept her alive. Harry knocked her head on the dash but she was okay too. I, well you know I hurt my shoulder. Dad, he, there was a hole in the windshield. I knew, just knew he was dead. I looked out to the other car-"

He stopped for a bit, clutching me closer.

"Oh god Sherlock, it was a family. A whole family. I could see them, the parents in the front- oh there was just so much blood Sherlock. Everywhere, I could make out their injuries. Their... They had a daughter! She was screaming. It... it was the worst sound I have ever heard. I tried to move, to get to her – to do something. My foot caught on a part of the car on the way out and I fell to the ground. I think I passed out, landing on my shoulder like that. A piece of metal had stabbed me during the crash, cutting into nerves and muscle.

"I got up, as soon as I could. Oh god, I... I couldn't get the door open! I- she was screaming, looking at me, pounding on the window. She couldn't have been more than ten, Sherlock, and she was covered in her blood. It was... gushing from her head, her stomach. Her blonde braids were soaked and I couldn't save her." He choked on the last word and went silent, breathing hard and forcing back tears.

I didn't know what to do... My poor John. I lied back, pulling him with me as he curled up, burying his head in my neck. My hand started to rub circles on his back, my mouth uttering small phrases of comfort out of instinct.


	9. Chapter 9

"So what does your family normally do for Christmas?"

We had slept in and were now eating lunch back in our room. I say we, but I was not participating in normal lunchtime activities. 

"What do you mean by 'normally do'?"

"You know, traditions and stuff?" said John. "My mum made blueberry muffins every Christmas morning. The smell would wake us up and me and Harry would race each other down to the tree for breakfast. After our presents were unwrapped, we would always make a snow-family in the front, if there was enough snow. I guess that's all over with now," John replied, lost in   
memories. "So, what about you?" he prompted. "You and Mycroft have epic snow fights or something?"

"Snowball fights? No, of course not. I haven't been home during the holiday break since before I started school."

John gaped at me.

"What? No Christmas pudding? No - no time with family?"

"Time spent with my family isn't much to get excited about," I replied.

"What have you done all these years? You couldn't've just sat in a dorm room all alone on Christmas!"

"That's exactly what I did, John. Unless my attention was needed elsewhere, of course."

John forgot about his sandwich and stared at my face, disbelief resolving to determination easily shown on his.

"I- You will- That's just- I can't believe that- That's it!" he cried, startling me. He grabbed my shoulders. "Sherlock! You are going to have a proper Christmas this year if it kills me!"

The manic, gleeful look on John's face did nothing but unnerve me.

A proper Christmas? What exactly does that entail? Because I will not be bullied into having Christmas with my family, for heavens sake. 

John made his way to his bedside table, looking all around and in it while I pondered what he had in store for me.

"Sherlock?"

"Mmmmm?"

"Remind me to get jam next time I go out, I seem to have lost mine!"

He missed the smile cracking my face.

___

I got a break in my case.

A few weeks ago, Mrs. Hudson recommended my services to a book club member of hers, a Mrs. Willis. She lived alone and had little family to speak of, and 'just didn't know what to do!' as Mrs. Hudson put it.

Her dilemma, a trivial one, was of missing mail. She would hear the mail come through the door, walk through the kitchen to get it, only to find nothing there. No bills, no letters, nothing. I immediately suspected a thief, but who would want to steal these meaningless items? A theory formed after a quick walk through and around the premises and I had promised her to be back this morning to catch the perpetrator.

The plan went successfully. As always.

The woman was so happy, if somewhat embarrassed at the results. I managed to escape in a reasonable time and head back 'home' to John.

John. He... he's a miracle, I suppose. I wouldn't have thought that anyone would ever tolerate me like he does. It's so new to just have a friend to talk to, much more so a boyfriend. I don't deserve his affections or his friendship, but he doesn't seem to be leaving anytime soon. For that I was endlessly grateful.

And here I was, hours before Christmas, with no gift for him.

The thought stuck me halfway through telling a cab to drop me off at school. I changed my directions and began brainstorming: What would John want?

Hats and scarves were out of the question. Too pedestrian for our current relationship, but something useful then? He wasn't in to performing experiments (why, I didn't know,) he had a laptop and plenty of school supplies. Clothes are never a fun present to get... Think Sherlock! What does he like to do?

Ahah! Of course! It would be perfect!

_____

I do just despise shopping. Dreadful business, really. John's gifts were safely tucked away in Mrs. Hudson's office (she wouldn't mind) and I made my way back to the dorm I shared with John. I could only hope that he would like the- Mother of All that is Blackberry Jam, someone had vomited red and green decorations all over our room.

"John! What have you done?"

To my immediate left lay a box overflowing with garland and shiny pieces of plastic. Another box sat on my bed filled with baubles and glass balls of all sorts. A Tesco bag was on my desk; and, most alarmingly, a small Christmas tree adorned the bedside table of John, recently relocated next to the window. To my right, however, was a much more interesting sight: John, wrapped in what looked to be a mixture of ribbon and a string or two of lights, smiling sheepishly at me.

"I've, er, decorated a bit," he blushed. "Do you, ah, like it?"

Picking up my jaw from its previous position on the floor, I nodded. John was proud of this… mess.

"Great! Now, um, could you give me a hand?" he held up the knot of Christmas in his hand.

I walked over to him and assisted in his escape, the action allowing me to find my voice again. "Why- Where did you get all of this?"

"Oh, well, I made a trip into town! Stopped by my house, no one was home thank goodness, and picked up the rest at a Tesco. I though I'd, you know, surprise you."

"Ah." He did it for me, for a proper Christmas. A rush of feelings surged up my spine, warming my torso. I tugged on his bonds, possibly making the knot worse. "Get that jam you needed?"

"Dammit! That's what I went out for too!"

I smiled.

"So where have you been? I though that you'd be back by the time I got here."

"The case," I said, concentrating on the mess in my hands, "I solved it. It was the first theory I came up with."

I filled John in on all of the details. He loved hearing about my little mysteries. He said that they'd make great stories, but I doubt anyone would be interested.

"So I waited halfway up the stairs from the door, hidden in a shadow until the mail came. Promptly at six o'clock, the mailman tramped up the stairs and shoved three letters though the door, landing them on the mat. It had taken Mrs. Willis 45 seconds to reach the mail before, but I told her to stay away this time. Who would have access to these letters? What would anyone want with her junk mail?"

"Identity theft, maybe? She's just a little old lady."

"I had dismissed that idea immediately, it didn't seem right. Why all the mail for an entire week? It would be so noticeable, too sloppy for any crook. So I waited. 15 seconds in, a sleek, small black figure darted to the mat, grabbed the letters, and darted back where it came from. My theory was proved so I made my way down through the kitchen to where Mrs. Willis was in the process of making a scarf-like object."

"What was it? You said darted, small, what could it possibly be?" John looked at me, engrossed in the mystery.

"Obvious isn't it? Little old lady, lives alone, no one to visit her, knits?" I finished with the knot and John stepped out of his bonds, moving to hug me. An action I gladly reciprocated.

He looked up at my face, not releasing me from the hug. "Who did it Sherlock?!"

"Her cat, of course."

"What?"

"She was pregnant, a fact unknown by Mrs. Willis, and was nesting. Due to the neatness of the flat and Mrs. Willis' near-sightedness, Minerva had no choice but to steal mail that she could shred into a bed. She was rather embarrassed when I told her, and tried to give me a heinous looking puce-green hat she had knitted. Luckily, I avoided that punishment and came back here," I finished, rather proud of myself for being correct.

"Minerva the cat? Hilarious!" John laughed, then looked at me. "That was- you're just brilliant, you know that right?"

I blushed, hugging him a bit closer. He released me and picked up the lights from where they had fallen.

"So! I was just about to decorate the tree-"

"Mmm-hmm," I said, taking off my jacket and gloves.

"Do you, uh, wanna help me?"

He held up the lights at me, smiling and looking all... John. How could I possibly refuse?

"Alright."

He handed me one end of the lights and we wound them around the tree, as they apparently went on first. John put the cord close to the outlet, explaining that it's better to wait until you're finished to turn on the lights.

He brought the box of ornaments closer and handed me one, hook already on. A bright red, shiny glass bell hung from my fingers.

"Erm," I said, embarrassed, "where do I put it? Just anywhere?"

John looked seriously between me and the tree. "Oh, no Sherlock. No, it has a specific place, you see. The tree must be perfectly in balance and colour-coordinated, each ornament must be arranged by type and size along the length, and placed closely enough to the lights to make each one twinkle! Did you not know this?"

I stared at him, dropping my hand.

Oh.

Of course.

A joke.

John was blushing with the contained peels of laughter behind my hand. Looking dejected, I turned away.

"Oh Sherlock, I didn't mean anything! I'm sorr-"

I turned to him, showing my face. Cracked in a smile.

He dropped his jaw as I started laughing, soon joining in. After composure was recalled to our minds, the rest of the ornaments soon found their way to the tree, covering the poor thing in a mixture of gaudy green, gold and red.

One tinsel fight and two broken lights later, our little Christmas tree was up and twinkling. As the only light source in the room, a faint reddish light was cast over the room and John's face. He hadn't stopped smiling the whole night and I was happy to have put it there.

"Breathtaking, isn't it?"

I agreed silently, holding my cheesy remark back. I settled on kissing him again.


	10. Chapter 10

Christmas morning was a joyous and magical occasion for families everywhere. Unless your power was out and it was below freezing outside.

I woke up with a violent shiver, automatically pulling my sheets closer to my body. The hour was early yet; I doubt anyone else knew about the power outage. Cause: Large snowfall overnight, resulting in tree damage, resulting in power line loss or damage.

Just as I was about to return to my much-needed slumber, I saw John shiver across the room. I got up; making my way across he freezing floor, fully intent on helping John to keep warm when I spied presents under our Christmas tree. John must've placed them there once I was asleep. After I caught myself staring at them, I realized that my own presents were still downstairs in Mrs. Hudson's office.

I turned around and padded downstairs in the deserted building. Almost everyone had gone home yesterday to spend Christmas with their families. Only a few remained, but we had this building to ourselves. Another dorm caught my eye through a window; the lights were on so we must be the only ones affected.

We have been rather quiet, so John would have to call the office for a repair. Mrs. Hudson's door was unlocked, as always, and I made my way in. On my way out, bag of presents in hand, I saw a note taped by the door previously unnoticed by me.

“Sherlock”, it read “I figured you might hide presents in here for your friend, so I left my presents in the chair. Happy Christmas, dear! - Mrs. H”

I smiled, tossing the note and picking up the other bag of presents. Happy Christmas Mrs. H, I thought.

\-------

John awoke a few hours later by snuggling closer to me. The happiness evoked in me from this simple action still astonished me.

"Good morning, John," I said.

"Mmmmmngh S'lock," came the reply.

I smiled. "Get up."

"Mon mermint," he mumbled.

Laughing slightly, I stood up on the bed like a kids and started jumping a bit. John groaned. I laughed and jumped higher: "COME ON JOHN WAKE UP IT'S CHRISTMAS IT'S CHRISTMAS LOOK PRESENTS COME ON!" I screeched, mimicking the brat we watched in a Christmas movie the previous night.

Needless to say, John woke up.

Unfortunately, he woke up by rolling out of bed. But at least he was up, right?

He got up and stretched as I jumped down.

"Why is it so cold in here?" he asked. "What did you do?"

"Why do to always assume it's me who has done something?" I pouted while he tried to turn on his bedside lamp, to no avail.

He gave me his look, the one saying of course it's you Sherlock, it's always you, but was cut off my a hug from me.

"HappyChristmasJohn I'mreallygladyoucamehere andthatyou'remyperson eventhoughidon'tknowwhy."

John hugged me back. "I didn't catch all of that," he said, "buy I got the gist of it. I'm glad you exist too." He grinned, kissing me and stepping back. "Now, where's breakfast?"

"Taken care of," I said. "Mrs. Hudson made us cookies."

I unwrapped the plate she had left for us, letting John take one.

"Mmmmm, cinnamon. My favorite. We'll have to call her today or tomorrow to say thanks."

I nodded, munching on one of the small treats. "The snow from last night knocked out the power to this particular dorm. I doubt anyone knows at the moment, as we are the only ones here," I informed him.

He nodded, finishing his cookie and slipping on some socks for warmth.

"What now?" I asked, unsure of proper Christmas morning protocol.

He though for a moment and stood, grabbing me by my upper arms. "What next, you ask?"

I nodded, slightly confused.

"Next comes... PRESENTS!" he shouted, shaking my shoulders.

He let go of my arms, but grabbed hold of my hand to drag me to the tree. Next I knew, I was sitting down on the floor with four presents around me. John sat close by, similarly surrounded, fingering the present from Mrs. Hudson.

He looked up, "Come on Sherlock! Open your presents!"

Mrs. Hudson got both of us new leather gloves, mine in black and John's in a dark brown. Next, I picked up a present from John. He pauses to watch my reaction: "I'm glad you chose that one first."

I shook it in my hand, turning in over and inspecting the corners. A book, obvious, but what book?

Carefully tearing the wrappings, I turned it to reveal its cover. I gaped at it.

"It's, it's ah... "

"Harry Potter!" interjected John, laughing. "I thought I might start you off with book one, maybe you'll be able to get my references now! Or at least some."

I smiled, John expected me to ignore the series, he gave this to me as a joke. But I'll read it, just to surprise him. It didn't look interesting at all...

"Your turn," I said.

He picked up the one closer to him, but put it back, going for a smaller one instead. He chose my almost gag-gift as well.

He tore open the paper: "Jam! Blackberry! My favorite! Thanks Sherlock," he laughed.

I picked up another from him. The package was soft and pliable, some sort of clothing or fabric. The inside the wrapping, I found a long, deep blue scarf; almost warm to the touch, even in the cooled room. I wrapped it around my neck greedily, rubbing my cheek on the fabric.

"So, uh, you like it?" came John's nervous question.

I had almost forgotten his present, entranced by the faint patterns in the scarf. "John, it's really warm," I attempted. "Er, thank you." A scarf wouldn’t have gone amiss… what if he didn’t like what I got him?

He grinned, blushing a bit at the ears. "I, ah, thought it would go good with your hair," he mumbled. "Next one then!"

He grabbed the previously discarded package and ripped into it, distracting us from his embarrassment.

"Oh, Sherlock, it's... How did you know that-?"

I let out a breath that I barely registered I was holding and explained. "From your obvious interest in biology and anatomy, combined with your reaction to the crash, I deduced it. This one is rather old, an antique, and I thought it might be interesting because it was used in-" John's lips cut off the rest of my description.

"Thank you I love it," he said, pulling the stethoscope around his shoulders and hugging me.

I immediately returned the hug and was handed my next present by John.

"Here then," said John.

I opened it and a smallish piece of metal stared back at me. I picked it up and turned it over. It was surprisingly lightweight. With my hands on each side, I pulled to open the middle crease, revealing a magnifying glass with fantastic clarity. Smiling, I looked up at John, waiting for his explanation.

"I thought you might like to, you know, to investigate stuff," he said sheepishly. "And it's sturdy so it should last a while, plus," he said, taking it from me, "look! It's got different magnifications in the smaller ones around the middle."

I showed him my gratitude by kissing him shortly, anxious for John to open his last gift. He grabbed another cinnamon cookie - I really must convince Mrs. Hudson to make these more often - and ripped open his last package.

This one I had spent most of my money and thought on. It was a leather journal of a deep maroon with a gold stripe. The colours reminded me of John somehow, and I added a gilded "JHW" to the bottom right corner. The journal was equipped with a pen sleeve and a ribbon bookmark. It was perfect.

"Sherlock... I-" he cut off.

I hope that he liked it, that he didn't deem it too personal or girly or stupid or-

"Sherlock it’s beautiful," came his sincere reply. "Thank you. It... It must've cost a fortune."

"Don't worry about the price," I said, taking in his concerned glance at the book in his hands. "My family is... Fairly well off." I left it at that and turned back to my presents, inspecting the cover of Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone with my new magnifying glass.

I felt John's smile as he turned back to his newest gift.

"Happy Christmas, Sherlock."

\------

"Sherlock?" John asked. He was sitting at our desk, writing in his journal - presumably about the events that just occurred - while I examined my newest mould culture by the window.

"Yes?"

"How exactly did you find out my middle name?"

I grinned. "Obvious. The way you hold yourself, and your remarkable likeness to a hedgehog, are only a few clues that lead to the conclusion of your middle name: Hamish."

He gaped at me, nonplussed at my elusive sense of humour, and sputtered "Sherlock!"

I laughed from my place on the floor, retracting my retort in favor of answering my phone.

It was a text, from one Molly Hooper.

‘Happy Christmas Sherlock! xoxoxo - Molly Hooper’

I sighed, the girl was quite obviously smitten with me because I helped her out. Too dense to see that John and I were an item, or just not caring if we were, I didn't know.

And, not for the first time, I wondered what exactly she had written in that journal of hers.

The only reason that I hadn't gone through it was to impress John. It didn't seem like something that he would approve of so I skipped it. In hindsight, I should've looked. Skimmed, really, just to see if there was anything that Donovan girl could use against her – Molly is an acquaintance of mine after all.

At my expression, John slid down from his chair and over to me, slightly worried. He must've called my name a few times. I really must work on responding to him.

Seeing what he was about to ask, I preemptively said "Text, from Molly Hooper. She's still smitten with me. Is that a thing?"

"What do you mean, 'a thing'?"

I sighed, exasperated at not being understood. And by not knowing how to explain what I meant. "You know, a... relationship thing? One that you're supposed to... Discuss or... something?" I hated the way my voice rose at the end.

John smiled. "You mean, should I be jealous?"

I nodded.

"Of Molly Hooper?" he asked, his smile widening.

I blushed slightly, realizing that I made a stupid assumption. John just smiled softer and kissed my cheek, murmuring.

I was about to apologize for my error when we were interrupted by his bedside light blinding us in the floor.

The power was back on.

\-----

If one was a member of the Watson family on Christmas, at least a few years ago, one would be subjected to various large amounts of food and movies until after the owls went back to bed.  
John was raised this way, so he only thought it normal to hoard two armfuls of food back to our room for the days provisions.

Entertainment was taken care of thanks to my laptop, a lovely wi-fi connection and knowledge of the best movie websites.

The movies started with an early lunch, and none, to my immediate and obvious relief, were particularly Christmas themed.

We took turns picking the movies. John picked his favorites, commandeering the first three turns by choosing the "ONLY three Star Wars movies," as he put it. I endured the first, but started to pay more attention as John talked animatedly about the scenes. He could believe I hadn't heard of them before.

For my first, I picked "Pirates of the Caribbean." I've always liked pirates, and the movie wasn't too bad. If I was being downright honest, the ships were bloody cool. Not that I would tell anyone that. Nor the fact that I believed I was a pirate for six months of my life.

John helped me select a Batman movie, winning me over by describing him as a detective. My third choice, with it being very late or very very early, was chosen at random. It was a film called Third Star, described as a Comedy/Adventure.

It was not a Comedy/Adventure.

I'd rather not talk about it, as my reactions to the movie were not standard, as the hour was very late or early and I was tired and I didn't cry, why would you think that? End of story.

Needless to point out, both of us were exhausted after watching six movies back to back, and we woke up on Boxing Day at noon, cuddled together on the floor with popcorn in our hair.  
After a much needed shower and teeth-brushing, I came back into the room to find John awake and on the Internet. Facebook, to be precise, obviously deduced from the blues and whites lighting up John's face.

His expression was grim.

"Sherlock, you know that kid, the one in our English class?"

Slightly irritated by his broad question, I responded: "Yes! Of course John! The one kid on our English class! What a descriptive question - I know just the one kid you are talking about!"

"Not funny, Sherlock," he said, catching my eye. "Something happened to him." he gestured for me to look at the screen.

I could see why he went a bit pale.


	11. Chapter 11

It was a picture. A figure was lying prone and unconscious in a hospital bed, barely discernible from the swaths of white and blue fabric and bandages around it. The boy from our English class. Between a wrap around his head and one on his cheek was a gash, highlighted in butterfly bandages. Red melded into blue and black around the wound. The rest of his body was covered with blankets, the other half of his face obscured with a breathing cannula, looking at home with a myriad of other wires and IV lines connected to him.

Even unconscious and in a picture, he looked to be in pain.

"What-" I started.

"I don't know. Let me read the comments."

I walked away from John a bit, still toweling my damp hair. Was he mugged? Was it-

"Oh my god," John got my attention. "He was beaten up."

"Obviously," I stated. "But by whom?" I cut off and began thinking while John filled me in. Facebook can be awfully pedestrian, but serves as an abundant source of information and useful gossip.

The boy was found in an alleyway close to John's favorite restaurant. He had been missing since the previous evening. His wallet was missing, an apparent mugging gone too far.

Or so they thought.

I sat on my bed, taking up my thinking pose, as John put it.

The boy, Derek Harrison I believe, was well off. A member of the rugby team. Or should I say former rugby player. He was the same boy that was outed as gay a few weeks ago. I pulled up a mental picture of him from our last class together.

Nails showing signs of being bitten on, nervous habit. Hair sticking up oddly, concealer present to mask black eye. Downcast in general. When compared to others before of him, I could see a worsening pattern emerge. He was being terrorized; mentally, emotionally and physically, by classmates.

I felt bad for him.

I also felt a little guilty, I was the aspiring detective, was I not? Wasn't it my duty to help people? Solve mysteries and put the bad guys away?

Why didn't I notice sooner?

Derek would live, that I was (almost) sure of, but what of the people who did this to him? I was almost certain that it was the Trio of Idiots, probably bored or drunk or both when they stumbled upon the unsuspecting Derek.

Harrison has been constantly terrorized by them since his secret got out. How that happened, I didn't know.

What I did know, however, was that the Trio needed to pay for this. No one at school bothered with disciplining them for petty fights and black eyes, but this was too far. Harrison was unconscious and severely hurt. But how to prove to the others that they did it?

I sat down, raising my hands beneath my chin, and proceeded to think.

\-------

"John, we need to visit Harrison. I need more data."

John nodded and went to find where exactly he was at.

John and I headed out several hours later. It was only a few days before the New Year, and the next semester was right around the corner. I had to solve this before we went back to school.

The cab ride into town was uneventful and before I knew it, we had reached our destination. The hospital was tall and old-looking, yet the interior was anything but. Sleek chairs lined the entrance and alien-like contraptions, called "art" by some, decorated various stations. A private, and very expensive, hospital.

The receptionist looked down at us from her imposing desk that looked like it should belong in an important law office.

"How can I help you?" she asked, not entirely kindly.

"Hi, we, er, we just want to-"

I cut John off. "We're here to see," I gulped in a show of being worried, "our friend, he- he got hurt an-" I wiped my dry eyes.

She believed the act. "Name?" she asked, in a softer voice than before.

I told her and she gave us directions to his room, gesturing towards the elevators.

Once inside, John looked at me. "That was brilliant, as always."

I snorted, looking away in a poor attempt to be modest.

"He was always so nice... Who would do this to him?" John sighed.

"I have my suspicions," I said to reassure him.

John smiled and brushed his hand with mine, wanting to hold it. I played dumb and instead just smiled back, wanting to focus my energy on the case.

____

The door to room 394 was ajar and, after lingering outside for a moment, I could sense no one but Harrison himself in the room.

He looked much like the picture online, still unconscious. Good. I didn't need his statement or his distraction.

John stayed toward the foot of his bed as I moved closer. I picked up a hand, sniffed his hair and examined his feet. Next, I looked at his bedside cabinet. Nothing of importance was on top, and in the drawer laid his watch and nothing else.

"John. Chart."

He looked up then reached for the chart hanging on the end of the bed while I went to look for his clothes.

"Erm, what do you want to know?"

I shot him a look.

"Alright then. Um, mild concussion, fractured cheekbone where the cut is. His wrist is broken and his face and eyes are badly bruised. His..." he flipped to the next page, "throat is bruised, consistent with being, oh god, strangled. The rest of his body is spotted with bruises as well. He's on morphine for the pain and oxygen because of his throat."

I nodded, absorbing the information.

"Anything else?" John looked sad again. I didn’t like that.

"No, just let me take a few pictures and we'll be out."

He nodded and I took out my phone. Two minutes later, we were walking back towards the elevators.

"What've you got? Anything?" he asked.

"Yes, I have a theory on who it was and a plan on how to prove it. I'd rather not divulge either in case of my being wrong." I said as we stepped in to the elevator.

"I'm sure you aren't," John stated.

Again, another in a myriad of hundreds, a smile found it's way onto my face using a path that John forged. I took his hand and squeezed and he looked at me in surprise.

The doors opened and he tried to let go of my hand, but I held on.

Suddenly, doubt sprang up in my mind. "Do you mind if we...?"

"No! Not at all, it's just..."

"What?"

"I thought you didn't like showing affection in public?"

"Not normally, no. However, I have had no one to show affection to."

He blushed and I made sure to hold his hand all the way to the street.

"So, where to?" he asked as I attempted to hail a cab. Blasted things, one day I will master the art of grabbing their attention.

"Your favorite restaurant, we will have a bite to eat then examine the crime scene. Unless you would rather go back?"

"No, I'm actually quite glad to be invited," he said. "Seeing you in case-mode is rather fascinating."

A cab finally pulled over and we got in, saving me from replying.

After our lunch, we headed just a few streets down to where Harrison was attacked. The alleyway was in between a Pet Store and a shady-looking pub. Light did not reach the interior of the alley and I was glad that John remembered to bring his flashlight. I always forget mine.

I quickly found the newest bloodstain and observed the rest of the area. Satisfied, I turned to John and motioned that we leave the damp place. He shivered, immediately flinching from the pain in his shoulder, amplified by the cold.

I placed my arm around his right shoulder, being careful with the left, in an attempt to warm him up. He looked up at me but didn't speak, mindful of my mind dissecting and storing the new information.

The cab pulled to the side more quickly this time.


	12. Chapter 12

Colors, pictures, places, times, days drifted before my minds eye. I was thinking.

Well, I call it thinking.

John calls it "Please leave a note so I can be sure you aren't in a coma” time.

Anyway, I was deep in a trance, sifting through files in my crowded mind-house. It was slow going, but I knew the more I used it the easier it would be. I had many specific memories of the Trio, mainly consisting of the shape and size of their fist as it came towards my face. Unfortunately, as entertaining as they were to relive over and over, they were not helping me think of a way to catch them.

I shifted to another file, one of just times I've seen the Trio. Skipping class, in the halls, one rugby team that I was forced to see, walking away, chatting up Donovan, scaring undercla- Chatting up Donovan. Donovan, connected? How would that help? Obviously with one of the Trio, he's using her for sex and an ego boost. She isn't that good-looking though, she must've given them something. Information. I opened my file on Donovan. Oh, how could I be so stupid! Of course!

I snapped out of my trance and stood, "John!" I looked around the room, noticing the darkness out the window. It was late. I must've been thinking for hours. John, I soon saw, was slumped over the desk, asleep.

I walked over to him and pulled on his good shoulder, leading his mostly-asleep form to his bed and covering him up with a kiss on his forehead. What? I can be thoughtful if in the right mood. As I made my way through the general mess of our floor, I noticed John's new journal on the desk, open to a newly wrinkled page formerly known as John's pillow. He wrote in it every day, sometimes twice. I smiled and flicked off the light.

I had a plan, now I just had to prepare.

\-------------

New Years Eve. The holiday always seemed over-hyped for what it was: a simple re-starting of the calendar. Normal people went out and drank their failures away from the whole year until they believed they were at a party. Everyone makes new-year resolutions they'll never keep while listening to that blasted song that gets stuck in my head each year. It was boring, dull, tedious, all of the above. But this year, I at least had someone to celebrate it with.

Don't get me wrong, I didn't curl up next to him and watch fireworks and sparklers on the telly, we did it our own way.

By starting the day off right.

By sleeping in.

(Until noon. Ish.)

I had traded places with John and fell asleep at the desk, resting my head on the open laptop. John woke me up with a gentle shoulder rub, knowing that I would be sore there from sleeping awkwardly.

"Tea?" he asked.

I nodded and he went about plugging in our handy little electric kettle and made us tea. It was the one form of sustenance that I didn't consciously avoid: No one makes tea like he does.

"So have you figured out a plan yet?"

"Of course," I replied. "I finished it last night, but I didn't wish to wake you."

"About that," he started, "didn't I fall asleep-"

"On the desk. Yes."

"And you-"

"Moved you to-"

"My bed?"

"Obviously. Who else would've?"

He smiled, "Thanks, you know, for... that."

I blushed into my teacup.

We sat side touching side on John's bed, leaning against the wall with our (perfect) cups of tea.

"So about this plan?"

"Ah, yes, you ought to be filled in on the details. Here's what's going to happen..."

_______________

 

"And that's why we can't start until after school begins. We have to wait for it to arrive, I had it special ordered online." Our conversation came to an end several hours later. We had sussed out all the details, all that he was aware of anyway, and were half way through dinner.

"Do you really think a simple tape recorder will do the trick?"

"Simple? John, please. The one I've ordered is spy-worthy. To call it simple is just an insult."

"Yes, of course Sherlock," he said, "and yet a simple one from the store 'round the corner would've done the same work at a much lower price."

I huffed and ignored him while he took the empty carryout boxes away, still smiling.

"Well, we've talked about Christmas traditions, what about your New Years ones?" John asked.

I huffed again.

John looked a bit sad.

"Nothing again? No fireworks or resolutions gone bad?"

"Of course not, John. It's all just folly. False hope and happiness for idiots who believe it that sort of thing."

He turned away. "Ah. The idiots of the world," he said. "I guess I'm an idiot then."

"John-" I tried.

"When I was little," he interjected, "and when everything hadn't gone to crap in my family yet, Harry and I would always try to see who could stay up longer on New Years Eve. I always lost, of course, but we had fun. Drank pints of root beer and sat on the roof watching far-off and near fireworks. If that's all folly then, I guess you don't want to kiss at midnight either?"

"John!" I stopped his unconscious pacing with a hug and tried to make it right. "John, you could never be an idiot."

It was his turn to huff. "Compared to you, anyone is."

"I'll take that as a compliment," I said and was rewarded with a slight laugh. "But you, John, you are different. You are my conductor of light, my muse, my energy and happiness. I could never call you an idiot."

His frown turned into a smile and I knew I had made up. That was a fight. My first real relationship fight. Success.

He stood up straighter and kissed me full on the lips. I pushed back and his lips parted under mine. Our eyes closed and soon his tongue slipped past his lips and I welcomed it. The kiss deepened and our tongues mingled as I pulled him closer. John pushed his hand through my curls and I slipped mine beneath his jumper, stroking the soft, warm skin beneath. Heat built up around our faces, the rest of the room cool around us, until we were suffocating but we didn't mind, we let it consume us as we clung to each other, catching our breath every few beats.

________________

The moment did, in fact, end and we ended up on his bed, pulling up a movie on Netflix. Some sort of comedy-romance with an obvious plot and only slightly surprising hi-jinks. I didn't pay too much attention to it; instead I watched John's reactions to the movie. A much more interesting use of my time.

While the credits rolled, I noticed the time. 11:42 P.M. Wonderful.

John shut off the laptop and rested against the bed with a happy sigh, meaning that the movie had ended happily. I quickly used the loo and when I returned, John was resting his eyes in the half-darkness. The clear night allowed the moon to brighten up the outside world, and a few streaks of moonbeam managed their way through our window and onto John's face, throwing it into high relief. On most, this would look odd or even disfiguring. On John, it made him look angelic, his hair almost white and his smile oh-so-soft.

Without much thinking, and noting the time again, I found my violin half under my bed and my bow hanging from a nail on the wall.

Starting quietly as not to startle John, I coaxed the notes of Auld Lang Syne from my violin, watching as John opened his eyes and watched me in surprise.

The notes were easy enough to remember, allowing most of my attention to divert to John. He was beaming at me and we made eye contact. I shivered, feeling pure love radiating from him.

Feeling. Love. Love. I loved him.

I smiled back, overjoyed from this surge of light coursing through my body.

I finished the song as the New Year came surging in with a quiet promise.

John stood up and we kissed.

At that moment, I made my first ever New Years resolution.

Never lose John.


	13. Chapter 13

The morning dawns, much too bright and happy to be tolerated and I open my eyes. John and I have taken to sleeping in the same bed, and he stirs with me. A moment later, the fuzz of sleep clears and we look at each other, internally groaning at the thought of what lie ahead. Today, this very morning, begins the new semester.

We got up, groggily, and attempted to dress presentably. We fixed each other’s hair in what has become an almost overwhelming show of sentimentality, and head for the door, but John stops me.

"Sherlock," he says softly, the hour being too early for anything above a whisper, "I know that we haven't really talked about this, but what do you want to do about... this?"

"I assume that you are talking about either making our relationship general knowledge or not?"

He nodded.

"Then whatever you wish. But let me say this," I paused, "I will not be offended if you wish it to remain a secret, nor of you wish to out it. I know that if it is made public knowledge, things will only get worse for you. Rumours about me will only be confirmed, and I have learned to deal with the idiots among us."

John, opened his mouth to speak, quickly shut it, and then hugged me and we walked out the door.

_________

The canteen was filling as we arrived. We got in line and John filled up his tray. I just followed him, not in need of any food this morning.

"Hey freak!"

John flinched, but I put a hand on his shoulder telling him to ignore it.

"Look, the freak came out of his hole!"

We made our way towards an empty table.

Insults followed us, mainly from the Trio’s table.

"He didn't get anything to eat! What an anorexic freak!"

"He's following that guy, the stalker!"

"I bet they're fags!"

"Hey freeeeeak! Come over here!"

"What a loser."

We were only halfway to the table. “This is why I don’t eat breakfast,” I told John, smiling in attempt to reassure him. It didn’t really help.

"Weirdo."

"Alien."

“I don’t know where they get the energy to do this so early in the morning. Perhaps if they focused more on school instead of being idiots-“ I tried again.

"Creep."

"Retard."

"STOP!" John yelled, placing his tray none too gently on our table. "THAT is ENOUGH."

Everyone stared at him. Including me.

Red in the face, John turned to me and kissed me square on the lips, in front of everyone.

And then proceeded to eat his breakfast.

________

I hate school. Not in the way idiots do, I don't fail things or fall asleep in class. No, I'm too smart for that. Too different. These thoughts race around my skull in a fit of self-evaluation as school starts again. I had had, quite literally, the best winter vacation in my life. Thanks to John, I had a few weeks respite from the glares and taunts of my classmates.

But now we were separated as the day began. I'm in some obscure philosophy class that I have no patience for and I can barely stand the stares. All of them saw John and I this morning, or they heard about it via the infernal grapevine. My tolerance to their hatefulness has been lowered over the vacation and there is nothing to take my mind off of their thoughts. Their actions. Their poorly-concealed giggles.

Sometimes I wish I wasn't so special.

Most times, I can control the bad thoughts. But not today. Oh how I wish I had control!

I'm a freak.

I'm a weirdo.

What am I even doing here?

I don't belong here, not with them.

I don't belong anywhere.

I want to be normal, I want to be sane.

I want to be OUT of this CLASS!

I was halfway out of my seat when the bell rang and subsequently the first out the door. I practically ran to where John would be, I had to see him. I had to gain some semblance of control back, get something to think about, ANYTHING. My mind wouldn’t stop, and I feared an embarrassing attack of nerves in the halls.

John was at his locker when I stormed past. We made eye contact and I kept walking, shoving through students and teachers. I made my way down a narrow, rarely-used corridor with a few empty classrooms, trusting that he would follow.

I opened the door to a windowless, dimly-lit classroom and he shut it behind him a moment later.

"Sherlock!" he sounded out of breath. "What's all this about?"

I turned around.

"Ah," he said, "bad start?"

I would've replied if I could, but there was nothing rational to say. I was breathing a bit heavy, my eyes were too wide. My hair, I’m sure, a mess.

"Do you, er, want some privacy?" he stuck his thumb back towards the door. "I could go if ya want?" He sounded so unsure and my heart broke a little. My John thought I didn't want him here. Truthfully, he was all I wanted.

Before he starts to turn to leave I shrug off my rucksack and practically bound toward him to envelope him in a hug. He immediately hugged me back.

I don't know how long we stood there, but it was long enough for me to calm down. In the presence of another person, it was a rare event, but with John I felt safe enough to put myself back together.

_______

We managed to part before our last two classes, which we had the good fortune to be in together. My internal strength was back and I didn't even register the stares or comments the rest of the day. Before I realized it, John and I were walking across the courtyard holding hands. (Holding hands is such an odd thing to do – if often results in sweaty palms and uncomfortable arm positions. Negative results balance with the outward meaning, we are together, literally linked, especially in a public area like this.) Due to our looking at each other more often than what was a head of us, we managed to run in to Molly Hooper, knocking her books to the ground. John volunteered to pick them up, leaving Molly to awkwardly start a conversation with me.

"So, erm, I saw that thing that... happened today?" Molly had an awful tendency to make every sentence she utters sound like a question.

"Yes, and what of it?"

"Oh! Um, nothing! I thought it was really brave," she giggled. My god, she still had a crush on me.

"Thank you, Molly," said John. He handed her books back and asked her about Derek.

"Oh, he woke up yesterday! I'm so glad he did, the poor thing."

"Did he say anything about who did this to him?" I asked.

"Oh, on the case, are you Sherlock? Wonderful!" I rolled my eyes. "No, he didn't. He wasn't awake for long, he was in too much pain so the doctors gave him more medication," she ended softly.

I huffed at the lack of help and John covered for me. "Thank you Molly, please text if you get any more news."

We moved forward silently. I was thinking and therefore didn't notice my surroundings until much later when John got back from dinner.

"John?" I asked.

"Yeah?"

"I've been doing some thinking, and I have a question and I'd like your expert opinion."

He waited patiently. I could almost see him flickering though our most recent investigation in his mind.

"If the entrance to platform nine and three-quarters is located in the middle of platforms nine and ten, shouldn't it be called platform nine and a half?" My brow furrowed.

Several indescribable expressions formed on John's face until it decided on open-mouthed laughter, to which I quickly followed.

An hour, or perhaps two, later, we were curled up next to each other on John's bed. I was almost done with my first Harry Potter book and John had almost completed his Chemistry homework. We were both asleep.

 

 

Eating disorders are not a laughing matter, neither is bullying. Tell someone. Anyone. It gets better. Also, I do not own the Radiohead song “Creep,” I just enjoy taking liberties with it.


	14. Chapter 14

After another week, my plan was finally ready to be preformed. That's what it is to me - a performance. I had gone over my part so many times in my head I could do it in my sleep. There was no telling exactly what I would have to say or do, the Trio's level of stupidity was too far down for me to venture in order to predict their every move - but the plan was foolproof.

The late-January Saturday morning came after a very long night of anticipation on my part and a restful one on John's. I woke him up at a reasonable seven am so we could talk before my plan was to be carried out.

"Today's the day!" I cried joyfully. Unknowingly at the moment, I had already been muttering the phrase during John's breakfast (one which I had fetched for him earlier, and I was quite proud of myself for that display of domesticity).

"What day is that?" John asked.

"Seriou-"

John laughed. "Of course I know what day it is, idiot. You've been ranting about it for weeks! It seems like you're more excited about the act itself than helping out Harrison."  
I didn't know how to take that - a mere observation or a subtle hint of my ever-present insensitivity? John smiled over his toast and the moment of doubt was gone, anticipation expanding to fill the void.

"So," I cleared my throat, "yes, I will go down to their not-so-secret hangout with my super-spy tape recorder -" John snorted at that "- and catch them in the act. It'll probably have to wait for a while, the bumbling fools won't get out of bed until at least eleven, oh I hate just waiting -"

"Wait, catch them in the act? I though you said it would just be -"

"Yes, yes, semantics. I will catch them confessing, John, don't worry, it shouldn't be too hard."

"I always worry," he said, quite seriously. "Especially when it comes to you."

Our eye contact didn't break for a few seconds. John stood up, presumably to get dressed, and kissed my forehead as I took up my thinking pose (John thought I looked like an otter when stretched out on the bed like this) and traipsed through my memories to keep me from too much boredom in the hours to come.

\-----------

I opened my eyes and stretched my neck, yawning and rubbing sleep from my eyes - Shit! I had fallen asleep! What time is it? Why hasn't John woken me up? I snapped my head down to my watch and sighed. It was just past them time I had planned to leave and John was nowhere in sight.

I got up and made for the door before remembering to put on my shoes (important). On them lay a note from John.

Sherlock,  
I went to the store, needed jam and those tongue depressors you wanted.  
Text me when you awake from the coma,  
John x

It was - sweet - of him to leave me to my thoughts, but it didn't change that I was late! I pulled on my shoes, grabbed my jacket and rushed out the door. Their hangout, a mostly-deserted corner of campus behind a building, had been prepped by me a few days ago. I knew where to stand and where they would be. The stage was familiar. My recorder was taped to my chest, just below my right collar-bone in a sort of hollow spot - the safest place I could think of for the events. John was away, all according to plan, and without another thought I walked briskly through the dreary campus, coat turned up against the biting January wind, to confront the Trio and end their reign of bullying.

\----------

John walked to the nearest Tesco, not wanting to waste his precious pocket money on cab fare, and preceded to do some shopping. Grabbing jam, re-filling school supplies and a impulse-buying few odds and ends he though Sherlock would like, John checked out and began the trek back, keeping all the bags in his right hand.

\---

As he rounded a corner, John noticed a black car trailing slowly behind him out of the corner of his eye. Wary, he set his bags down and pretended to re-tie his shoe. The car stopped. He took a deep breath, his mind suddenly clearing and his vision becoming sharper - fight-or-flight mechanism in full gear as he weighed his options. He could continue back to the school, keeping in the public's line of sight until he could get help, or he could bolt and hope to lose whoever-it-was. Of course, he could just call the authorities and have them de- 

Too late. A man and woman were fast approaching and the car at the kerb beside him. John looked around, making for the alley to his left in vain as he was wrestled into the car, bags scattered on the sidewalk.

\---

I was so caught up in my thoughts as I walked that I almost walked straight into the idiots. Luckily I lifted my head in time to stop several feet away from them. The Trio was half circled up, smoking and making noises in what must have been an attempt to laugh. I waited patiently for them to notice me while they looked at something on one of their phones and 'laughed' together. One of them looked up.

"Oi! What 'choo doin' 'ere ya fag?"

Idiot One's lack of enunciation almost caused me to flinch, but I repressed my actions in favor of observing the group. The one who spoke was the stereotypical big-dumb bully. He wore shirts much too tight for his body weight and had a squashed up face that made him look constipated 24/7. Next to him, Idiot Two, was the 'brains' of their group and the leader. A chain smoker since eleven, Number Two grew up in a spoiled home where his parents cared more for their money than their heir. His particular brand of ignorance was based on trying - and failing - to fit in, making himself known by beating up those who ignored him. And behind curtain number three stood my least favorite, if there could be such a thing, idiot. He sported a pinched face and generally was the first to throw a punch in any confrontation. Due to his bony body structure, and his tall frame, his knuckles were rather unforgiving when confronted with flesh.

"I asked you a question, punk!"

Punk? I thought Really?

"I am here," I began (rather dramatically, I might add), "to collect evidence on the behalf of Derek Harrison. I do believe I will find answers with you three."

The two on either side looked dumbly at their leader. Number Two huffed.

"I don't know what you're talkin' about, ya poof" he said. The others took this opportunity to put out their cigarettes move slightly closer to me.

"Oh, no, I think you do," I countered. I was going to have to make them angry now so they would make a mistake, I wasn't there just to get beat up. "Even though you exist as a lower form of intelligence than most, you must remember your actions over holiday break, no? Or are your alcohol-addled minds too void of brain cells to know what's going on?"

My simple insult largely went over their heads, causing them to turn red in the face.

"Oh my, did I not use small enough words for you to comprehend? God, what hell it must be to lead a life in your tiny little minds-"

"Hey!" Idiot Three managed. "Shut up pussy!"

"Yeah, what he says!" said One. “I got good grades!”

I rolled my eyes. "Oh, so you do remember - "

"Of course we do!" said Number Two proudly, like a puppy starved for attention but too smug to receive it. My god, was it really that easy? "We beat up that little fag, he deserved it, kinda like you." They started to close in on me but I took no notice, I needed more evidence.

"How did he deserve it?" I asked, feigning an innocence that was able to convince the Idiots of my confusion.

"How didn't he?" asked One.

"The little fag had it comin'" said Two. "He was infectin' my space with his disease - Harrison deserved to die the little fucker, we wanted him to rot in that alley."

"Yeah," said Three, trying to form an argument, "we beat him up real good, the stupid fuck."

Charges Confirmed: battery, attempted murder, ignorance and general idiotic behavior. Time to make my exit...

"Ah, thank you boys, I understand now," I said. My backing up was blocked by the quick Number Three and soon the other two blocked my means of escape. I looked through their bodies, no one was around. My hand made for my phone but was stopped by the greasy hand of Number One.

"Jus' where da ya think yer goin'?"

Shit.


	15. Chapter 15

Confused. Baffled. Surprised. Let's throw in worried into the jumble of things John Watson was feeling.

He sat, unharmed, in a moving car staring with wide eyes at a well-dressed (read: posh) man across from him twirling an umbrella. Confusion was aimed mainly at the man - honestly, who would carry an umbrella on such a lovely day? Completely unnecessary. The accessory made it seem like he knew it would rain later, giving off an air of a know-it-all. Oh, and the fact that the man hadn't yet killed John - making the boy completely baffled at the fact he was still alive.

"You should really wear your safety belt," commented the man.

John's eyes got wider. Here comes in the surprise. Surprise is a funny word, one with all sorts of slants and nuances that one could see in 'excited' or 'I have to talk to you.' This surprise, the one that John was currently feeling, was mainly 'it was such a normal day' and 'why am I not dead' with a dash of 'what about the groceries?'

"I'll have one of my people pick up new groceries before the end of the day," said the man, seemingly reading John's mind.

Worry. Several different types. Worried for his life, of course. For Sherlock, because obviously this was connected to him - things like this didn't just happen to John Watson after all. And for the immediate future, the car's destination.

"You must be wondering who I am?"

John nodded, still trying to process what had happened a minute before.

"My identity is not important, however, the time is. Do not worry, John, no harm will befall you."

John's attention was caught at that.

"What? You kidnap me off the street and I'm supposed to believe that? And you know my name?! Who are you!"

"Like I said, not important-"

"Let me go," said John, leaning forward and staring at the man. "Let me go right now and I won't hurt you."

The man had the audacity to smirk at John, his posture completely relaxed.

"Really? Petty threats of physical violence? It would take one blow to your shoulder to immobilize you for quite sometime, and Sherlock wouldn't like having his... friend harmed."  
John didn't back down. "How do you know Sherlock?"

"If you were to ask him, I would be his arch-enemy," the man said through his smirk.

"Arch-enemy? Is that even a real thing to have? Where are you taking me!?”

"One of two places," the man checked his watch, "but likely the second at this point. I suggest you calm down before you end up hurting yourself."

John didn't realize he was grasping the edge of the seat so hard until he looked down.

"And for goodness sake, put on your safety belt!"

__

Who turned on the lights, god they're bright. I shut my eyes.

Fuck, that hurts.

Migraine? Most definitely. I try to cover my eyes with a hand but stop before much progress is made.

Fuck, that hurts more. Focus. Where are you?

Hard ground, damp coat, pain, pain, pain, remembered glimpse of a tree - outside obviously. On the ground. I smell smoke and... blood? My own of course.

I was beat up. Again.

How tedious.

_____

I regain consciousness sometime later, thoroughly making sure that my migraine was gone before I attempt to open my eyes. Low light, blink, white ceiling, breathe in, hospital. I groan lightly.

A hand tightens around my own, a face above mine. John.

I open my mouth to speak but nothing comes out. John disappears and comes back with an ice chip, soothing my mouth awkwardly but in a welcome manner. I blink in thanks.

John smiles, then frowns. He moves away, presumably to call for a nurse now that I'm conscious, and sure enough a nurse hovers over me within a minute. I fall asleep again.

______

This time I feel normal when I awake - as normal as I can feel anyway. I turn my head and John is there - always there - holding my hand again. I smile and blink sleepily.

"Joh-"

"WHAT THE HELL WERE YOU THINKING?"

John was upset.

"What do you mean?"

"What do I - Sherlock! You're in a HOSPITAL for Christ's sake, you were attacked and I wasn't there!"

"But I -"

"Would you like to know why I wasn't there? Hmmm?" He was pacing at this point. " I wasn't bloody THERE because I was bloody KIDNAPPED off the STREET - you IDIOT!"

He stopped mid-pace and turned to look at me. I didn't try to talk this time. "And look at you know," he said in a softer tone. "God, Sherlock - you're covered in bruises! Your shoulder was dislocated and two fingers broken!"

At the look of panic on my face he added "The right hand, don't worry." I couldn't stand not being able to play violin. And John knew that.

"This happened to you, and I wasn't there - for what Sherlock? Nothing's going to happen to those idiots now."

I shake my head minutely to avoid excess pain and begin to explain, but John covers my mouth with his. It was gentle, of course, and warm. And much too short.

"You idiot," he said (this time with a smile on his face), "You could've gotten yourself killed."

"I didn't mean to John, honestly." I respond.

John sighs. "I know."

I gesture weakly to the drawers across the room. "John, in my effects, the recorder. They confessed."

John wrestles with the bag and pulls out the recorder - still intact. "But if they confessed, why did they -?"

"Beat me up? Of course they did. I'm me. Anyway, everything we need to turn them in for Harrison's - and mine for that matter - beating is on that recorder." John slips it into his pocket. I yawn.

"Get some more rest," John said. "I'll be here when you wake up again."

Of course he will.


	16. Chapter 16

A few hours later, a confused police officer follows my brother into the room. I'm awake, but I keep my eyes closed.

"Sherlock!" I hear John's stage-whisper from next to me. "Sherlock! The man who kidnapped me, he's here!"

I sigh. Now everyone knows I'm awake.

"John, calm yourself before you have a panic attack, and if you would be so kind, please set down that vase. There's no need for things to become violent," my brother sneers.

I try to imagine John's confused face but I figure that the real thing was better so I opened my eyes. It was.

"Ah, Sherlock, I see that you're awake-"

"But - Sherlock! What's going on here?"

I sigh again, split between being thankful or not of Mycroft and I's very different physical appearances that force me to explain our relationship.

"John, I see you've met Mycroft."

"But he-!"

"My brother."

To this minute I can't quite fully explain the baffled look on John's face. If helpful, it's somewhere between a trapped cartoon fish and a confused woodland creature (read: hedgehog).

By passing John's baffled, rapidly moving eyes, Mycroft turned his attention back to me.

"Mummy phoned from Africa. She sends her regards."

"And you came all the way here to tell me that?"

"Of course not. Can you not see the man behind me?" The officer perks up. "He's come to collect what evidence you have."

"About tha'" interjected the officer. Second year, just now gaining confidence and respect in the workplace. "What case is this suppos-ta be abou'?"

"A new one," said Mycroft. While explained the situation John finally snapped out of whatever trance he was in and turned to me.

"He's your brother? But he kidnapped me!"

"Only at my request," said I. "And it's not like any harm came from it."

“Um, should I be concerned abou’ a kidnapping now?” interjected the officer, scratching his head.

"Any HARM? SHERLOCK!" John paused and took a breath, lowering his voice. "Look at you! You're in a bloody hospital bed now because you got yourself beat up for no bloody good reason!"

I have upset John, something that I acknowledged with a look and momentary deep thought. Unacceptable. Must make amends. Privately.

Now to get rid of Mycroft.

"I'm sure this officer can catch up on the full report your people have made. Now, John, hand over the recorder so Mycroft can be on his way."

John did as asked, still keeping an eye on me, and Mycroft left without another word. Instead, he shot a knowing (read: arrogant) smirk at the both of us. The officer (in an attempt to be inconspicuous) left a card on the table by the door, no doubt with his private number on it.

Yet, as John’s stare intensified - as a character from a hideously predictable comedy John forced me to watch one morning said - I've got some 'splaining to do.

\-----

A nurse came in shortly after and I found myself drift off to sleep once again - an annoying side effect of whatever dug they were pumping through my veins. When I woke later, John swam into focus against the private hospital background.

"John."

He startled and looked around, happy to see me awake again.

"Hey S'lock" he yawned.

"John, listen" I started not meeting his eyes, having readied for this speech while unconscious. "I had to get that recording to have the evidence against the Trio. I couldn't back down, that would disappoint you. I can't have that, then you'd leave and realize what an awful human I am..." I trailed off - obviously not as prepared as I thought to have gone off on such a tangent. "But it's not like I planned to get hospitalized! It just happened, like it always does. I didn't mean to make you upset." I looked up at him.

The look on his face - another I have a hard time recreating with words. It was so full of... was it love? Such a look has rarely been thrown my way that any remark I could've made blocked my airway.

"Sher... You thought you'd... disappoint me? Not be clever enough for me? Sherlock you're brilliant! You'll never be not brilliant and there's no way I'd leave voluntarily. I'm just mad that you kept me away from helping you, and you ended up here."

"I didn't want you to hurt your sh-"

"DAMN MY SHOULDER! Sorry. Just... I've lived with this stupid thing long enough that I hate being limited by it. I don't care if they had injured it or not if I had been there to help. Three against one isn't exactly fair, Sherlock."

He smiled and leaned down, obviously to kiss me. After we broke apart he didn't move far and whispered "Just don't count me out next time."

Next time.

Annoyingly enough I sank into a dreamless sleep once again.

\-----

Four physical therapists, two nurses, and three days later I was discharged from the wretched place and back in our dorm resting comfortably on John's mattress reading Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets.

"You should really catch up on your coursework," said John from his place on the floor.

"Done. And so should you."

"Done? How did you-"

"Get it all done so fast? Please. After they took me off that drug I did it at night. While you were gone."

John shook his head. "Well I'm practically caught up and I don't want to any more."

"What do you suggest then?"

"I don't know... Movie maybe?"

"Fine," I said and put the book down. John fetched his laptop and I scooted over to accommodate him on the narrow mattress, careful with my still-sore shoulder.

"How does... Harry Potter sound?"

"You mean they actually made it into a movie?!"

"Eight! And two musicals, but you have to read all the books before you can watch those."

My eyes widened, expecting a joke but none came. Wow.

The movie began to play.


	17. Chapter 17

The movie was... Adequate. I preferred the book of course but the film did a good job of encompassing most of the plot. I pondered the movie (I decided that the soundtrack was quite good) for a while after the credits ended. John was asleep on my shoulder and the laptop quickly followed him into a dreamless sleep.

I knew it was not good that I decided to go through with the plan without him, but after calculating the chances of my being hurt I did not want to risk it.

It was a peculiar feeling - this caring and forethought directed toward another human being. I could sense the feelings reflected back to me. I was still in a state of mild shock from the first time I realized that my John was unique. The feeling could be described as such: Impending Doom. I have always had a problem accepting the good things that happen to me. From a young age, the reality that I was not going to be socially accepted at all was repeatedly drilled into me from multiple sources. As soon as I got anything new I expected it to rip or break. Kind smiles from strangers were not going to repeat themself if they got to know me. Social interaction with anyone would indubitably end awkwardly and most likely with the other party being offended.

The first exception to this rule of my life had been my violin. It had been a constant companion, acting as my inanimate best friend since childhood much like most people regarded their first teddy bear. It never judged me when I got note wrong, broke a string or ignored it for weeks. It was a constant.

The second was Red Beard. 

The third was Mrs. Hudson. Yes, the nice, old landlady stuck in a job in this wretched place. She was infallible, an unflappable pillar holding up a corner of my existence here. Mrs. Hudson had mothered me more than my own mother had, bringing me food "she cooked too much of" and making sure I had clean sheets and the like. St. Bart's would fall without her.

The fourth and most recent and exceptional was currently drooling on my shoulder wrapped up in a too-large and very loved oatmeal jumper. John Watson: The Enigma. The only exception I had no realistic explanation for. The violin was inanimate; it did not care what I did. Red Beard was gone. Mrs. Hudson was denied children by her abusive ex-husband and saw me as a project, albeit one that she truly cared for. John, however, had every right to be personally offended by my presence at least twenty times within the first week of knowing him. My John was a clichéd miracle that existed only in books and the like. My John existed at a point of imperfection so great that he was perfect. My John was waking up.

"Flerrrmnuh?" he mumbled.

"Shhhhh," I said quietly. "Go back to sleep."

He complied.

_____

"That's completely unwarranted and unnecessary!"

"No it is not a 'petty prank' as you so put it!"

"What possessed your tiny little mind to believe that-!"

"I will not!"

"Just speak to my brother then! I understand that you are on edge from petty relationship problems and that you are under the gun for a promotion soon - it would do you good to listen to someone smarter than yourself!"

I ended the call. If I am to have frequent contact with the police I'll need a reliable and trusted source within the Met, which is why I was nice on the phone with that officer from the hospital. His private number proved fruitful in building a relationship.

I turned from the end of my pacing area and noticed John was awake.

"Who was that?" he asked.

"Lestrade. Irrelevant. The matter has been resolved." I moved closer to him and flopped onto the bed beside him. He was warm. "Bored."

"Seriously? Well if you're bored then I have something to keep you occupied."

I looked up expectantly. "You are either wanting me to snog or have questions. I'll agree to both. Which first?"

He smiled and shook his head. Oh, his smile. "Neither," he said. "First is bathroom. I need to shower. Then food. Lots of food."

I sighed. "Food is boring."

He got up and tossed my book at me on his way to the shower under the presumption that it would hold my interest for the copious amount of time he was to spend away from me. I pouted.

_________

Forty-three point seven minutes and the last half of the book (damn him) later, he returned with a plate of toast and started to make tea for us.

"Not hungry."

"Don't buy it," he replied. "Can you grab the jam from my desk? There should be just enough left. Mycroft neglected to pick up my groceries after he kidnapped me."

Ah, the questions first. I supplied him with the jar and took a more alert position on the edge of the bed.

"Yes, about that. I will not say that I am sorry for involving him, but he could have handled it more politely."

"Damn straight he could've!" John handed me toast and tea, which I reluctantly started consuming. "His lackeys practically tackled me into the car."

I made a mental note to speak to my brother about that. My distaste for the situation must have shown on my face by John's look. "It will be dealt with," I said.

He sighed, a common occurrence around me, and went back to his toast.

"Okay, questions first."

He thought for a bit. "I really only have one. How did you positively know who beat up Harrison? I know he was bullied here, but it could have been anyone in the city."

My John, asking the smart questions. I smiled and began pacing.

"I solved two cases through my investigations regarding the beating of Harrison. My initial suspicions of the Trio came from observing Harrison's recent treatment here at school. As you know, we was evicted from the team and publicly humiliated more than once because of the bullying surrounding his homosexuality. It was not his choice to 'come out,' but instead a direct reason to bully him.

Who told the Trio of his secret? I doubted that many people knew here, as word would have gotten around sooner. So it was narrowed down to his closest friends - none of which were on the team to begin with. Only one of the three people he kept in his close circle had visited him in the hospital and had been privy to information from his family. Follow me so far?"

John nodded in concentration. "Erm, Molly Hooper?"

"Exactly John! Molly Hooper had her diary stolen prior to the incidents directly related to Derek Harrison, her best friend. Of course she did not intentionally tell anyone his deepest secret, but had written her thoughts about it in her childish journal. A journal that no doubt her roommate had seen and wanted to steal because of Molly's relationship with Harrison."

"What would make Sally do that?" John interrupted.

"Oh, John, the same thing that motivates all teens in one way or another - hormones! She was attracted to Harrison and was angry at the rejections he undoubtedly put upon her. She had seen Molly with him and wanted not only to see if Miss Hooper was in a relationship with him but also to find any dirt on him that her idiot friends could use against him. It was her who told the Idiots of his secret. Thus the mystery of why Molly's journal was stolen solved."

"Brilliant," John said. I smiled and continued my story.

"But how did I know the Trio was the party responsible for Harrison's injuries? Besides their prior bully-victim relationship making that attack more realistic, I gathered all I needed to know from the visit we paid to Harrison. His bruises were inflicted by three distinct people, which pointed to the Trio. His possessions were still with him, pointing to a motive other than robbery. His hair smelled of - don't give me that look John - cigarettes and alcohol. The smoke was of a distinct brand used by - you guessed it - the Trio. While Harrison was indeed in the wrong place at the wrong time, the intent of the Trio was planned - it just happened to occur on that night."

John was gaping like a fish. "You're telling me that you can differentiate between cigarettes based on their smoke?"

I scrunched up my face. "Of course John."

He let out a laugh. "You're absolutely brilliant, you know that right?"

I was saved from answering redundantly by my phone ringing. Lestrade.

"Yes?"

"I told you that."

"Of course I was right!"

"You have my number. We will be in contact, I am sure."

Another flick of the phone and the call disconnected. "Lestrade just informed me that Derek Harrison has officially given his statement and it matched my findings."

"Brilliant!" John said what was quickly becoming his favorite word. "That joined with the evidence you got him should get those Idiots what they deserve."

He pulled me into a hug that drug me back into the bed with him.

"I assume part two of the morning shall begin?"

He giggled and pulled me closer to him. "Of course."


	18. Chapter 18

I never imagined that the touching and swapping of saliva with another human would prove such a good addition to my everyday life. I never imagined myself snogging, much less initiating the action. The friction of mouths and teeth and hands – oh god hands – I now know why there are so many crimes of passion. 

Ever since the case was closed, John and I have been growing closer in several ways. Publicly, we were out (and have been since the breakfast incident) but there were less stares and mutters since the Trio had been sent to a correctional school (thanks to Lestrade and bad press on St. Bart’s, and in no way due to the actions of the staff here). 

The spring semester had flown by, the fastest it has ever seemed to me. The classes weren’t as bad, especially when John was next to me. I had a partner for projects, a companion to keep me company, a doctor to heal me and a John to be … John. We were boyfriends, but the term seemed so weak in my eyes that I neglected to use it. Instead, I introduced him as My John, which described him perfectly and matched the possessiveness that ‘boyfriend’ instilled. According to my mental notes of the past few months, we would snog (a kiss lasting longer than a full minute, by my standards) about 1.7 times per day – but never much further than that.

_______

A kiss, after dinner or homework or in the middle of an experiment would start it off. Gentle, soft presses of lips as our bodies would rearrange themselves – seeking warmth and friction with the other. Usually, we’d go to the closest bed. I’d straddle John (the friction was important) and lean over him. We touched from toes to foreheads, breathing each other’s air. 

“God, Sherlock,” John breathed. 

I leaned further and kissed him again. Lips, dry and chapped, slid against mine. His tongue invariably ended up sliding between my willing lips searching and exploring, tangling with my own. 

“JohnJohnJohn.”

His hands would card through my hair and mine would take turns supporting me and running up his sides and neck. Sometimes, I’d break off to breath and start just under his jaw, pressing firm kisses along until I reached his ear. Experimentally, I had once taken his earlobe between my lips and the result had been very satisfactory for both parties (“Oh, Sher,” he said as he arched up into me) and was repeated often. The spot behind his right ear was quite sensitive as well, as the spot was just above my collarbone he liked to attack.

We’d roll over to change positions and then there was no space between us. Hands were no longer used for support and things would get faster and more desperate and there would be groans and uncontrollable bucking (oh, god, my favorite) and hands inside t-shirts until we’d let it simmer down.

But, oh - oh yes ¬- the snogging. The snogging was glorious and never boring and ever different and wonderful. Well, it was boring sometimes, but all things are sometimes boring when there are more interesting things going on. It made me think in sonnets and clichéd phrases found only in greeting cards and bad TV movies. Or good TV movies, come to think of it. This brings us up to date: an oddly scheduled spring break has just begun and campus was quiet the Friday night in question. Almost all of the students fed the moment they could from their last class, and more would leave tomorrow. It was the perfect opportunity to bring up something that had been plaguing me for a few months. 

Sex. 

Surprise, surprise, we had not done the deed in our many months of a relationship. Even more of a surprise is that we haven’t talked about it either. Kissing had led to snogging which led to roaming hands which were usually interrupted with: sleep, class, hunger (on John’s part), homework, a knock at the door, bathroom call and on one occasion a murderous clown (but that’s a story for another time).

Having no experience in such things, it was hard to know exactly how to make the proposition. I had thought for a while that one day it would just progress to that point, but I had never thought of the during. Maybe, as the less experienced one, John was waiting on my okay to proceed. That is, of course, if John even wishes to proceed. Maybe he did not wish to do… that with me. Maybe thought I didn’t want it. Was this even the proper time for us, truly?

There were too many questions. 

I didn’t have any friends that weren’t John, no confidantes that weren’t Mrs. Hudson (and I shudder thinking of asking her) and no relatives besides Mycroft (who’s name shouldn’t even be thought of in this situation). This left the Internet. 

Last week, my Google search history was depressing to say the least. Among searches of how-to’s regarding gay intercourse, conflicting relationship advice, a few seconds of a video and a live chat with a Phillove69 (quickly over), I concocted a plan. 

Romance, I had learned, was the way to go. A nice day and a dinner was the thing to start with. I picked Sunday (two days left) implement the plan. The sex would be brought up causally in conversation by me during the pleasant day, and I would learn about his experience and whether or not to continue with the plans.

Communication was important. I would ask (after determining how he felt about the prospect of having intercourse with me) if he would be amenable to moving forward in our relationship that evening. I would be prepared, in either instance, with back up plans (which included a movie, snogging, or packing my things and changing my name). Condoms and lube were purchased and waiting in a desk drawer, hopefully to be uncovered and opened after a delicious take-away dinner eaten on real paper plates. I haven’t decided whether or not to have a candle; it posed a fire risk but was generally included in a romantic situation.

I just had to make sure I was ready so that everything would go according to plan tomorrow.


	19. Chapter 19

Things did not go according to plan. 

From step one, it was doomed and I should have seen it earlier. Honestly, I thought I could be coherent about my desires without everything ending up horribly? That this day would move smoothly through and I’d end up in bed with my best friend with all parties happy? This relationship thing has obviously driven me into some sort of delusional state where things turn out good for me in the end.

Where did it go wrong? More like where did it go right. I know that ‘lanky hormonal lazy moody teenager’ it is a stereotype that rings true in my life, despite my clear attempt at avoiding that particular path, but I had no idea the condition consisted of flare-ups where all symptoms were present and arguing with each other for hours on end. I blame John for this ridiculous state that plagued me on implement-plan-intercourse day.

\---

It started off normally enough. I actually slept the night through, something that I’ve been doing alarmingly more frequently since John and I decided to start sharing a bed (I say decided…) and woke to the back of John’s head directly in front of my face. I would admit to smiling at the sight and smell and feel of holding John through the night, but I believe that I was smiling in my sleep already and the expression simply carried over into my waking state. 

Carefully, so as not to wake him, I rolled backward and up into a sitting position so I could stand, but the bed had other ideas and decided to not be as wide as I thought it was, therefore I ended up in the floor gasping out my surprise as a corner of a textbook dug directly into my left bum cheek and my elbow caught the corner of my microscope. 

I didn’t move, for fear of waking John and genuine surprise at my position, for a moment. Ow, I thought, that’ll bruise. With more care than earlier, I extracted my right foot from the bed where it was still grasping for some sort of purchase, and eased myself vertical to take stock of the day in a dignified position. 

Okay, how to start the day: communication? I turned, John was still snoring. No. Nice gestures? Sure, okay, that. What does one do in the morning? Breakfast! I turned, ready to go, and knocked an empty jar with my foot. It rolled over to the desk. Luckily, there was little force behind it and it didn’t break, but the soft clink was enough to wake John.

“Sher?”

I sighed. Nice gestures would have to be observed while implemented. “John.”

“What time is it?” He rolled over. Why do people always insist on knowing what time it was as soon as they woke up? 

“It’s half past nine –“

“Arrgh!” 

I looked to John, wondering if he was in pain, pretending to be a pirate or upset at the time. 

“That bloody well hurts.”

I had my answer.

“Your shoulder?” John rolled to his back, wincing. He must have slept on it wrong all night, and he said as much. 

“Yeah, shouldn’t have played that match yesterday with the guys, fell on it pretty hard then slept on it.”

I leaned over him and touched his hand that was resting on his old wound. “Is there anything I can do?” 

He squeezed his eyes in pain and said: “The warming patch, it’s in the desk, grab one for me?”

I got up to get the box when something occurred to me. “Wait – what match? You were with me all yesterday!” 

“Um, no, I wasn’t” he yawned. “James called me up, they needed an extra. Sherlock, I was gone for a few hours, didn’t you notice?” 

Bloody well guess not, I muttered. “I must have been thinking..” John brushed it off and attempted to sit up. 

I helped the patch onto his shoulder under his shirt once he sat up. As he adjusted his arm and tried to wake up a bit more, I sat next to him attempting to salvage the day. Suddenly, John tapped me on my shoulder and offered me tea – no, wait, that isn’t right. He was just sitting next to me – now he has his jacket on and is handing me tea? 

I must have slipped into my mind for longer than I intended. Again.

“Anyway, I’m out. See you in a few hours!” John left with a smile before I could do anything but take a sip of perfect, perfect tea. 

\----

What the hell was I ever thinking? How did I ever expect this to be all right? My perfectly planned day has reduced to me pacing the room and wincing when my bum moved due to the large bruise gained that morning. 

John was still out, presumably with his friends or family or something, no telling at this point, and that wasn’t the point anyhow because I was tantamount to freaking out – another characteristic brought to me by John and this relationship!

I was seriously planning on practically seducing John today – how could I! I’ve never thought about sex before John, in fact I avoided the thought entirely. It’s messy and emotional and the exact opposite of what I prefer! And how long have I known John anyway, just a handful of months and I’m willing to be that… that vulnerable with another human? 

John’s never brought up the subject either. Did he even want to have sex with me, with a man? He’d said that he had only had relationships with women before anyway, and did he even find me attractive? Of course I find him attractive and we have both showed symptoms of arousal while in contact, but the subject of sex never came up. I suppose he liked my looks enough to snog, but actually crossing the line into sexual contact? It could be the point where John says enough.

Did I even know him? Of course I do, though, and that’s the problem. I know his laughs, all seven of them. I know his smiles and his fingerprint patterns and how his second toe on each foot is just a little longer than his big toe. I know that there are six different shades of blond in his hair, I know what he looks like when he’s hungry or tired or sad or happy – I know what it feels like to kiss him and to hold his hand. To hug him, to talk to him, to buy the jam that he prefers and listen to him when he is upset. If I was anyone else, I’d say I was in love with him, and I probably am judging the way I’m prattling on about him in my head while staring at his dirty jumper on the floor. 

But what about him? He’s been acting… differently recently. Yes, yes he has and I hadn’t noticed before now. We haven’t snogged nearly as much as usual and he has been almost… distant. I resumed my pacing while putting the pieces together. It could be from stress, but what about? School finals were approaching, but he hasn’t been studying any more or less recently. He would tell me about nightmares and fears, he has before. Family? And option, but he has ranted about them to me more often than not. The school body has long since moved past us as a headline for gossip and I haven’t done anything differently to ward him away. 

Have I?

He just told me that he was out having fun at personal risk (and confirmed injury) for hours yesterday without my noticing. What else has happened in those moments? Have I missed anything? It must be to due with the relationship, with our relationship, because there’s nothing else to cause these aberrations – he’s out right now! Right now with God-knows-who and he left me without so much as a goodbye kiss or hug or anything! Well he did make me tea… That’s not the point! Have I been pushing him away? For God’s sake, we’re just teenagers who snog a bit! Does he want to let me down gently so we can go our separate ways once school is finished? Is he tired of me? My eyes started stinging and my scalp started to burn at the frequency with which my hands were running through my hair. What if he was tired of me?

The door opened to reveal John, still smiling at something someone had said, until he looked at me. 

“Sherlock?”

What a sight I must be, standing in the middle of our mess, eyes no doubt red with rubbing and hair amok from hands and breath sharp and audible.

“Sherlock, what’s wrong with you?”

He walked toward me, assessing me in half a moment. 

“Is something wrong with me?” I asked, softly. My control slipped and I bolted out the door. 

I needed to keep thinking.


	20. Chapter 20

Back up plans were done for. I don’t think I could sit through a movie or compose myself for dinner. Going back downstairs to get my belongings so I could skip town was a no-go even if I possessed the will to live. 

It was afternoon in spring and comfortable outside. In fact, the weather was lovely. It was so lovely that it succeeded in distracting me for a little while as I found myself staring off into the light grey distance. I think the weather was just to show off to people like me how little the world cared about any life-altering sadness I could be feeling by being as nice as possible.

I was angry. At myself. So irrational. So stupid! Getting myself caught up in this messy, hormonal relationship doomed from the start was entirely idiotic and frankly embarrassing. This should have been a productive year for me, for research and continuing to grow in deduction. Instead, instead I’ve been wasting it on fruitless activities with John Watson. 

Honestly, though, what did I ultimately expect? That we would live happily ever after and go off into the sunset and that’s it? That my first real friendship and relationship with someone would be so perfect that nothing could break it? 

I was crying then, I’ll admit. Emotions have never been my strong suit and yet there I was on the bloody roof again crying into a nice, if partially cloudy, day. Pathetic. Absolutely, incredibly pathetic –

“Sherlock? What’s wrong?”

Oh, John. He found me – of course. He knows all of my spots now. He walked around and sat next to me leaning against some metal wall facing the edge of the building. Our sides touched and I hiccupped into a sob, attempting to control my emotions. John’s arms, damn him, wrapped around me, and my body, damn it, leaned into and clutched at him. John Watson was the only person I wanted to comfort me when I was upset about John Watson. Damn him. 

A few moments passed in silence and hiccups until John spoke.

“Are you okay?”

“Does it bloody look like I’m okay,” I mumbled, then rolled my eyes to his jacket. This was not the time for my impertinent sarcasm to break through uncontrolled. Not to John.

“No, no you don’t. What have you been thinking about all day? Did someone visit or did you go out…?”

Should I tell him everything? It was all so… embarrassing and childish in my opinion. But John was John, and that means John was kind and would want to know. If I didn’t tell him, he’d get it out of me eventually, and since this situation and realizations could hardly get much worse I decided to open my mouth. The problem was trying to close it once I gave it the go-ahead. 

“I’ve been thinking about you, John,” I said. “More specifically, us. Us and, oh for god’s sake, us and.. sex. The next stage in our relationship and all that.”

John was quiet for a moment, then: “Oh.”

“Yes, oh. Oh to the fact that it probably isn’t a thing that is going to happen and that you don’t want, especially with me and how it’s absolutely ridiculous how I’ve been worrying and preparing for it and it’s not even a thing to worry about and it’s holiday and I planned out for a good day but -”

“Sherlock, I -”

“But then you went out and you’ve been going out and socializing with normal people without my knowledge -”

“Hey, that’s you ignoring me when I speak and you’re thinking -”

“This relationship obviously isn’t going to last, John. That’s the all of it – we have separate dreams and socio-economic classes and you’re… You’re perfect and like sunshine and people like you and you’re kind enough to talk to me and be my friend but I know there are better people for you – god anyone would be better and realize you’re worth a million of a freak like me -”

“Hey! That’s enough!” John shook me and tilted my body away to look at me, but I felt the loss of his warmth even in the nice weather air. “Where are you getting these ideas from?”

“I -” I shuttered a breath.

“No, shh. That’s the problem. You’ve been thinking too much. Okay, so when you were talking you said, god, you talked about twenty different things about us. Most importantly, Sherlock, and you listen to me on this. You are not a freak. You are intelligent, more intelligent than anyone in this bloody school, but they’re just too stupid to understand what a wonderful, brilliant mind you have. Disregarding any lapses in social convention you have,” he said, trying to lighten the mood. 

He lights up the setting sun with his compliments, lights up my chest and makes it warm enough to stop trembling. I don’t deserve him. Pushing aside a weak (but sincere) smile. “The rest of it -”

“The rest of it sounds like rushed, one-sided panic thinking that happens when someone is insecure in a relationship – Sherlock, love, start at the beginning so we can make some sense of it all.”

I told him everything I was thinking. Well, most of what I was thinking – the stuff that was relevant anyway. It was hard to hold back. John was still sitting here, still listening to me blabber on and on. My trembling ceased completely and I was able to breathe regularly again, no longer burdened with snot or tears. Leaning against John and the low wall behind us, my eyes tracked the sparse clouds and the slowly changing sky. I told him about the day, how it was supposed to go and how it actually went. He insisted on looking at my elbow to make sure there was no lasting damage, and I let him.

I told him the turns my thoughts took me and how everything felt really just helpless and awful all at once then he showed up and I fled. 

“…and it’s all so ridiculous because I’m acting like a teen in a rom-com which is stupid. It’s like all of my actions are coming from somewhere else, as if they aren’t even mine to begin with and I’m being intentionally dramatic somehow. I feel ridiculous and it’s making me feel sick.”

“Sher,” he said quietly after I had finished. “Let’s go downstairs so we can talk about this, okay?” He kissed my head where it rested on his chest, causing a rare blush to cover my neck. 

\---

I settled down on my bed, scooting back on the messy sheets until my back was resting against the wall, feet tucked up and arms around my legs. John flipped on the electric kettle sitting on the floor and prepared some tea for us. 

I love his tea. It’s perfect. 

A quick few minutes later, he was sitting close to me in the middle of the bed, facing the wall and me on my right hand side. 

“Sherlock, I really, really like you.” He sighed. “I don’t really enjoy talking about this sort of stuff, but yeah. I want to be with you, and god that sounds like a rom-com line but it’s true. I have wanted it since before I kissed you last year and I haven’t changed my mind. Why would you think I didn’t want to be with you?”

“You’ve been going out more often. It’s like you’re almost distant. Pulling away.” I took a sip of his tea. It warmed me.

“Sherlock you can possibly expect me to stay with you constantly, can you?” he said kindly. “I love spending time with you, but I do know other people and I have managed to make a few friends here.” He paused and said, almost reluctantly, “I think that some of this is your fault. Don’t take that the wrong way! Please, don’t, but you’ve been doing that deep thinking thing more and more often lately and it can get kinda lonely in here when you do that, so I go out. And I’ve been studying in the library and making up a few lab hours recently. Sherlock, I haven’t been trying to abandon you or anything, I usually tell you I’m heading out or where I’m going, you just don’t hear me, I guess.”

This was turning into more and more of a mess and an embarrassment on my part. I still felt like I was taking it too seriously for our situation – I should be disconnected enough to realize it’s just another stage in my life that will pass eventually, yet why is it that when I think about a happy future I can only see John with me?

“I’m sorry,” I said, and I meant it. “I had no idea those thing were related. Perhaps I need to work on my timing and duration of visits to my mind to coincide more regularly with schedules. And I should build in a safeguard when you need to get my attention, perhaps a word or phrase or -”

“That sound great, Sher, but we’re losing the conversation a bit now. What is it that has you so worried about – about us and this relationship?” John took my empty cup and placed it down with his on the bedside table and turned to join me against the wall. He took my hand and I interlaced out fingers, staring at them for a moment.

“Well, I mean, you can’t possibly want to stay with me forever, can you? Relationships are so senseless. They just end and people expect another and another then they die. What’s the point of them! We’re going to graduate and go separate ways and you’ll be a doctor and I’ll be whatever but the circumstances we’re in won’t be replicated outside of this school unless we move in together -” 

John silenced me with a kiss. “Is that what you want?”

“What?” I asked. His face was so close to mine, searching my eyes as I searched his. 

“Do you want to… to just break up?” His voice cracked. “To end it because you think it’ll end anyway just to – to get it over with because that would be… logical?”

His eyes were tearing up now and my tea-warmed heart hurt at the sight. Before I could say anything he kissed me again.

“Because, Sherlock,” he breathed. “Because I don’t want that. I choose door number two, you git, I choose a longer time with you if that’s what you want. I choose a life of ridiculous cases about clowns and cats, of running after you and protecting you so you don’t end up in the hospital again. Of your beautiful face and curls and your long neck to kiss. Of surprising Christmases and absolute insanity and… beautiful violin pieces at two am and everything else and more. I’ve thought about what to do after we graduate, Sherlock, and I can’t imagine anything more brilliant than moving in with you.”

I stared at him. So this is what shock felt like. I stared at my John and I stared at the words coming out of his mouth and every bad thing I’ve been feeling all day went away and I just stared. He looked hopeful but scared all at once and I didn’t like that at all so I kissed him instead of saying anything. 

“So?” He asked.

“Oh, god, yes,” I replied.

He gave the most brilliant smile and blinked away the moisture in his eyes before leaning back and putting his lips on mine once more. He scattered kisses, my chin, my cheek, my eyebrow, my forehead, and tangled his right hand in my hair. It was then that I realized our hands were still connected by our sides. Still clutching at each other, afraid to let go. 

So this is what love feels like.


	21. Chapter 21

The emotional confessions (and revelation, on my part) took a toll on our teenage, British bodies so we fell asleep. After, of course, some shuffling about on the bed and more kissing and hugging (clinging). I woke up first, as usual, as it was just beginning to get light outside. Another week of solitude meant for studying and getting drunk (for the general population) and all I wanted was to lie in bed with the person I cared for most in the world. 

The person I loved. 

I never thought I would love somebody.

Realizing that you love someone, I’ve learned, doesn’t come as a shock to the body. It did not cause me to panic, or to cry with joy. I didn’t feel the need to flee or call my brother (heaven forbid) or anything else – it was the conscious acceptance of an already proven fact. It was, to put in place a bad analogy, as if you looked down halfway through the day and saw that your shirt was green when you didn’t notice putting on a green shirt that day. You have a little more information about yourself than you did, and you go about your day.

Of course there was some doubt remaining. I’m the last person to ever be termed an optimist, and I realized that we are, in simple fact, hormonal teenagers. But I loved John. I know him and I’m in love with him as we exist on this spinning earth today and it doesn’t matter (too much) that our relationship could end sometime in the future (and probably will, statistically speaking) because I love John and he is sleeping in my arms today.

As I was thinking these non-panicking thoughts in stark contrast to the previous day, I was also staring at John’s nose. It was adorable and perfect and rounded and almost pointed up and I loved it. Our arms were wrapped around each other and our faces were close enough that I could easily lean forward and kiss his nose (which I did immediately) and soon I went back to sleep.

\----

I was awake again, but this time I was cataloging John’s scent and the way his left hand felt against my back while he was sleeping. I traced the outline of his fingers in my mind until my skin felt like it was burning where he touched me. Soon enough, those fingers I was concentrating so much on twitched. That twitch cascaded through John’s body as a stretch as he woke up. 

“Morning Sher,” he said post-yawn. 

“Mmmm,” I mumbled back, eyes still closed. Contented in the moment like I’ve never felt before.

“You in your mind again eh? Got a fancy palace in there you’re visiting all the time?” He sighed and smiled. I noticed the smile from the tone in his voice and confirmed it upon opening my eyes.

“Not quite a palace, more like a few rooms.”

He looked surprised. “Really? You mean you like, visit an imaginary room all the time?”

“Mmm, sort of,” I contemplated, “I store and sort through information and facts by visualizing them as objects that I place in a room for long-term or short-term storage. I learned it from the Internet – I can keep something forever or delete it.”

It looked like this was a little too much for John to process in the amount of time he had been awake, but he was trying. “How does that even work?”

I thought about how to describe it. “I close my eyes and think about a room I’ve made. I visualize myself standing there and move around from that place. Short-term storage, for example, is near the fireplace. I’ll store something on a bookshelf, like the general plot of Slaughterhouse 5 as the book, then throw it into the fire when I don’t need it anymore. Other things are permanent – compositions, case notes. I even have a board for current problems and clues. I have a few rooms, one for people. One for you.”

While I was speaking, I moved my hand from his shoulder area to his face. My fingers followed a path around his eyes and nose and over his lips only to move out of the way for mine. I was struck with another realization: This was a little romantic. My socks are black, oh well. I pulled back, our lips sticking to each other’s ever so slightly until they peeled away from a tugging smile. 

“Sherlock,” John started, searching my eyes. “A whole room?” I nodded. He smiled. “Listen, about yesterday -”

“John, we needn’t talk about that anymore. I think we fairly resolved it.”

“Well, yeah. God Sherlock, did we really agree to move in together?” 

We both grinned uncontrollably and shared another kiss. 

“Absolutely fantastic,” said John. “There was one thing, though. From the conversation we had on the, uh, roof.”

I could tell the mood changed to something a little more serious. 

“The uh..” He cleared his throat nervously and suddenly I knew what was coming.

“John, I -”

“No, Sherlock, it’s important.” He breathed. Blushed. “Sex. Between us. You wanted… it… yesterday?”

“No! Well, yeah. I mean, I planned on, erm, seducing you? Bloody hell. Yesterday. And, well, that obviously didn’t go according to plan…” We were both blushing.

“So you do, erm, want to have sex? With me?” asked John. “I’m, I’m only asking because we never have talked about it, and never really gotten that far and neither of us have done… it and I was just wondering if -”

“Yes, John. I do. I just wasn’t sure if you did with me -”

“Yes. Yes, of course.”

“Ah.”

“…”

“…”

“Ah?”

“As in good.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Good.” 

I rolled my eyes at the repetition and John laughed. 

A beat of silence.

“Now?”

Our lips met in mutual agreement. His were soft, as always, and warm against my own. My tongue darted out against his lips and they parted smoothly. The wet friction of tongue on tongue was gradual, unrushed. John made a small noise in the back of his throat and suddenly it was a little harder to get the needed oxygen in my lungs. 

I pulled back but only so far as to kiss his jaw along to his neck, just under his ear. He gasped and pulled me a little closer to him, his hands running up my back and into my hair and I nibbled down the side of his neck. Our bodies were flush against each other and I could feel his… interest against my hip and I’m sure he could feel mine. 

We’ve been here before. 

John pushed me back so his body was resting on top of mine. Resting, but moving against and touching and feeling and running up my sleep shirt. John sat up and took off his shirt and I took the opportunity to do mine as well. Skin on skin – as far as we’ve ever been when it comes to nakedness. Our breath was getting heavier and our lips met again. My hands roamed over John’s naked back, pulling, pressing closer. He shifted his weight and slid his left hand from my hip to my chest and rubbed over my chest.

A groan escaped my lips, quickly muffled by John’s mouth. Our groins were rubbing and causing sparks to shoot up my spine adding to the fire in my chest. He broke off the kiss and gained his breath back in a few deep gasps. 

“Sher?”

“Yes.”

He nodded and rolled off of me. I slid my hands, too focused to know they were shaking, to my day-old pajama bottoms and quickly shed them before looking at John. 

His eyes were glued to me, starting at my face and making their way down, their path lighting an embarrassing blush down my body as I fought the urge to squirm. I must have moved because John looked up again to my face and kissed me again. He returned and divested himself of his trousers and pants and socks in one uncharacteristically smooth motion and it was my turn to gaze. 

It was overwhelming. The amount of new information all vied for my attention and recording separately: John’s sparse chest hair, thicker than mine, was lighter than his pubic hair. There was a mole on his left hip that was close to two freckles, making a comet trail towards his stomach. His upper thighs were a few shades lighter than the rest of his legs where he had been covered in public. John. All of John was exposed to me. 

The atmosphere, glanced between movements and kissing, was so unbelievably awkward like falling down a snow-covered hill in front of everyone you’ve ever known and be expected to recite Keats by the end of it or die of embarrassment, but the moments went along. It wasn’t frozen or smooth but it worked.

Before I knew it we were kissing and John was back on top of me telling me how beautiful I was and how brilliant we were and I remember agreeing and bucking and rutting. I came with my eyes open wide at the ceiling, unremarkable except for a bullet-hole smiley. John did with his head buried in my neck. 

Minutes later, John rolled slightly to pull up the sheets over our cooling bodies and I tucked my body into his side in sleepy (if a bit sticky) contentment.


	22. Chapter 22

The end was nigh. In 12 days, John and I would be graduated and moving out of this hellhole of a school, leaving not much behind besides Mrs. Hudson and a few of John’s friends. Moving to where was still the issue. My things would be moved back to Mummy’s (as she was still out of the country) until arrangements for my flat could be made. Before that could happen, I had to know at which school I was to start my studies. 

It wasn’t as if I hadn’t received any acceptance letters yet. That would depend upon bothering to apply anywhere. I would go wherever John decided to go; we’d already discussed it. 

“John,” I said. “John where do you want to live.”

“Hmmm?” he asked, looking up from a textbook. He’d been in study mode for the past week, very dull.

“I was thinking close to the river. Transport readily available. Or maybe in further up in London, by Regent’s Park. I’ve heard it’s very nice.” I was fully aware that talking to myself now. John had been rather noncommunicado while studying, convinced he had to reread his notes and the books over and over or else he’d fail and, in his words, ‘drop out, become homeless and never amount to anything now stop asking me to stop studying we aren’t all geniuses, Sherlock.’ 

“Mmmm,” replied John, turning another page. 

I sighed, bored. It was only out of love that I didn’t pick up my violin in frustration. I decided to get out of the room for a bit, head down and chat with Mrs. Hudson. She’d grown on me over the past years, and I admit I’ll miss her most from this place. 

The door was shut, but unlatched, to her office and I’ve learned to just walk in when stopping by. Mainly due to Mrs. Hudson’s remarkable ability to –   
“Come on in!”

-notice someone about to knock.

“Hello, Mrs. Hudson.” I sat down on the old couch she kept by the wall, perpendicular to her desk. I took in the room, possibly for the last time, and tried to file the details away. Sentiment, that’s a new one. Though, I suppose, only predictable when one comes to an end of a part of their life. 

She looked over from her desk where she was knitting. Nothing about her office seemed like an office. “Sherlock, dear, what brings you down here? Not hiding from idiots again, are we?” 

Mrs. Hudson, always worrying. “No, not today. Just… reminiscing I suppose,” I said with a flick of my wrist, indicating the general area. 

“Well, that’s only natural dear. You’ve been through a lot here, good and bad. Biscuit?”

I ignored her offer. “More bad than good I think.”

She put her knitting down and I could she was about to head my way. “Now, I wouldn’t say that.”

“Of course you wouldn’t, you don’t know the half of it.” 

“I probably shouldn’t either, if my temper is to be kept in check. Those stupid, small-minded boys – that’s all they’ll ever be.” She sat down and sighed, a trademark of her existence.

“That and in and out of prison or stuck in fast food, flipping burgers the rest of their life,” I replied. I felt suddenly lazy, as if I could sit here for hours and not move. Total contentment with the situation, despite Mrs. Hudson’s tittering beside me. 

“That’s all they’ll ever be,” she repeated, turned towards me. “But you, Sherlock, you’ll be great. Well, you’re great now, but you’ll be better than great I can just see it! Oh, dear, you’ve grown so much since I first met you! It’ll be sad to see you go, but you deserve it – getting out of here of course – and you’ve got John and Sherlock, you must know that he’s good for you.” She got up, heading back to her knitting without missing a beat in talking. “This past year I can tell has changed you for the better. You talk more nicely, seem a bit more even-tempered wouldn’t you agree? Got a few friends, yes? I must say I worried, but you pulled through like you always do.”

Mrs. Hudson continued on this tangent while I thought. I suppose I could say something to her as well, communicate my gratitude to her, before I leave. It was an odd feeling, about to say goodbye and mean it sincerely, yet it came with the firm belief that I would see her again.

“I’ll miss you, too, Mrs. Hudson,” I said. I must have interrupted her because her mouth was hanging open a bit before she smiled. 

“Of course dear.” She rose as I did and walked around her desk after me to the door, talking all the while. “Oh, come here, you, give me a hug before you head back up. You know how busy I’ll be the next few weeks, moving everyone out, hunting down missing keys and whatnot.”

She pulled me into a hug. “You take care of yourself, Sherlock, promise me that.” She smelled of vanilla, solid and warm surrounding me for a moment. 

“You too, Mrs. Hudson.”

“Now head on back, see if John could use a break from study and go get yourselves something to eat!” 

\---

When I opened the door to our dorm room, I expected to see John with his head in a book. This is technically what I saw, except that he was drooling in the book, fast asleep, instead of studying. He didn’t look uncomfortable, just very unconscious, so I left him be and sat on my side of the room. 

When you read novels or watch TV, anyone who is in love always looks attractive. They’re asleep, but angelic and perfect. They got caught in a rainstorm, but their hair and makeup are still artfully arranged. That by itself renders most love stories too unrealistic to be tolerated. In reality, someone can be fully awake and primped and you can see them at a bad angle and they look completely different. Add that with the unflattering angle that John was in, taking into account him drooling and his clothes rucked up and the face he was making, John did not look his best. What the romance plotlines were missing, alongside the realistic looks, were the feelings that came with reality. 

I observed John. Noticed he looked a “hot mess” (he would say if he could see himself now). But I still liked him. I didn’t look away or try to fix how he looks, in fact I was almost drawn to him. He let down his guard around me – he would never do this with a stranger present, or even an acquaintance. This was John without the barriers – the John I get to see. It is fascinating; the walls people build around themselves. I’m guilty of the same. If we went around without walls we’d be vicious and vulnerable, but it was something special to be invited inside instead of breaking them down. John was someone worth keeping for as long as he wants to be kept, and someone to give myself to as well.


	23. Chapter 23

Freak, they said. Weirdo and Creep. I was branded with these names down every corridor and room on campus. I carried myself in a way that both invited name calling and shoves, and drove away people. At the beginning of this year, I was convinced they were right – that I was a freak, a weirdo. No one could do what I do; no one else could meet a complete stranger and tell their life story in a single glance. No one, no one normal, had such a fascination with the murdered and the murdering. No one else was more interested in science than football or sex. No one else was called a disease and a threat to others by their private mentors, their teachers and their counselors. 

No one was like me. 

This society wants their children to believe in being unique and embracing who you are but when they are faced with someone actually different they're on the offensive with no turning back. 

Then I met John, and realized that there was no normal. 

There will always be the smart and the unintelligent oafs that think “Pirate” is an insult, but none of them can set the standard for others. I’ve made it a hobby to understand others in order to solve problems, and there have been no two (interesting) cases alike. Motives are unique. People are unpredictable. 

I sat in the room that has been my home for the past four years, boxes piled around me waiting for movers to fetch them to London. I packed most of my things, with John’s help, but the one I neglected was in front of me on the floor. A gun, many months forgotten, stashed away in a closet by a frantic John, a newly created smiley face watching from above.

Inside the city they weren’t welcome, and I didn’t intend of needing one for personal use. I can barely remember the exact reason I had it in the first place, besides providing entertainment while I was bored. I suppose I could have used it, on myself or on others, if it got too bad. I remember that it used to paralyze me. The thinking. Thinking, thinking, all the time with no one to speak to but the unstained wall. 

Then I got a roommate.

I won’t be overdramatic and claim that John swooped in and saved me from myself, but it wouldn’t be entirely incorrect that he helped realize me a great deal about others and myself. I’ll be forever grateful to him for that, I owe him my devotion for the foreseeable future and beyond. 

John was finishing some sort of paperwork regarding a change of address for the school’s records and whatnot. We’d be leaving this afternoon, taking the train into London while our things were shipped to our new flat. 

The future is never certain. Any number of future events could occur with no warning. John seems sure that everything will work out fine, despite his family issues and future plans. I, however, am choosing rather logically to not take a stance on the future at all. I could only be disappointed or surprised either way, and it was too much effort to waste. Instead I will take each problem, each case and moment, as it comes up and if I have John by my side then all the better. 

A knock on the door. The movers. John would have just walked in. 

The gun. I tuck it under the school-issue mattress and let the movers do their job. When John comes back I’ll give it to him. I’ve no use for it anymore.

\---

The End

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a big thank you to everyone now or in the future who reads, reviews and likes this story. it's been years the making.   
> find me on tumblr: geniusneedscoffee


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